


The Seafarer; or, A Question of Time

by DoubleNegative



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Meet Differently, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Background Femslash, Blackmail, Brief suicidal ideation, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Depression, Happy Ending, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mary Morstan is not a Villain, Mild Ableism, Original Character Death(s), Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-05-14 10:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5739619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleNegative/pseuds/DoubleNegative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Put two ships in the open sea, without wind or tide, and, at last, they will come together. Throw two planets into space, and they will fall one on the other. Place two enemies in the midst of a crowd, and they will inevitably meet; it is a fatality, a question of time, that is all.” - Jules Verne</p><p>
  <em>The Indian Ocean, 1880: John H. Watson, MD, meets Sherlock Holmes and is deduced.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’ve been in Delhi, I see.”
> 
> “I—” John began, startled. “Well, yes—how can you tell? I can’t imagine I have a reputation to precede me.”
> 
> The sailor waved his hand dismissively. “The same way I can tell that you were a soldier, that you’ve an injury to your left shoulder, that your convalescence was long and quite difficult, and that you’re more than a year widowed, although you’ve only recently removed your wedding ring. Simple observation and deduction, nothing more.”
> 
> _The Indian Ocean, 1880: John H. Watson, MD, meets Sherlock Holmes and is deduced._

“I think I shall miss the sky most of all, when I am in England. I did not know such blue existed anywhere in the world. The air itself feels bright with it.”

John took a deep breath and forced himself to smile politely as the woman beside him chattered on. She made pleasant and cheerful company, certainly, and he was grateful to find anyone he could chat amiably with among his fellow passengers, but—good God, could he really stand to spend the entire voyage discussing the weather? Two months to London, the captain had said, and most of that time spent just north of the Equator. Bright sun, burning clear skies, and sea breezes: surely by now she should be used to it?

“I agree,” John heard himself saying. “The weather has been quite pleasant this evening. It’s most refreshing, after so much time indoors.”

“And the air is so much _cleaner_ than Bombay,” his companion continued, surprisingly enthusiastic despite her similar observations two or three or six times before. Miss Forrester was young, though, John reminded himself, and on her first sea voyage—she was the child of a prominent English diplomat, en route from Bombay to Dorset to be married, with only her chaperone for company. “The salt air has done no favors for my hair, I can assure you,” she continued, with a rueful laugh. “But I quite relish the feel of it in my lungs. Do you think Chesterfield House might be like that? A little?”

“Mm,” John said. “I have never been to Dorset, but it’s on the coast, yes?” He adjusted his grip on his cane, trying not to lean upon it too heavily. He’d missed the sun and the fresh air when he was in hospital, but the ship’s constant roll and sway did make navigating with a walking stick challenging. He had a raw spot now where it rubbed on his palm, and the knowledge that the callouses he’d acquired in the army would be replaced by callouses from a damned _cane_ pained him nearly as much as his thigh and shoulder.

The tip of his cane caught a divot in the wood of the deck, and he stumbled forward, barely catching himself and sucking in a sharp breath.

“Are you quite all right, Doctor Watson?” Miss Forrester asked, resting a hand on his arm.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” John said, shaking off her gentle hand a bit more brusquely than he’d intended. _Christ_ , but his leg hurt. Though he’d sustained no actual wound to his thigh, one wrong step could still send the muscle into spasms. Embarrassment burned his cheeks, and he took a deep breath, then another. “I’m sorry, Miss Forrester, but I must sit a moment.” He gestured to his leg with a tight smile, and limped toward the bench situated near the rail. He lowered himself slowly, biting back a curse.

Miss Forrester hovered nearby, her young face pinched with concern. “Is there anything at all I can do?”

He forced another smile and waved his hand. “No, please don’t interrupt your walk on my account. I’ll just sit here a moment and it will pass. I imagine Miss Morstan is expecting you for tea in any case.”

She smiled and her cheeks pinked prettily. “Yes, I imagine so. Thank you for the pleasant company, Doctor Watson. I do hope you feel better.”

He watched for a moment as she walked away, then tipped his head against the wall behind him with an thump. _Damn_ his leg, damn his shoulder and the enteric fever, and damn the entire Indian subcontinent.

“You do know she’s engaged.” A voice cut through his bitter reverie, and John opened his eyes reluctantly, squinting at the tall figure silhouetted against the setting sun.

“Of course I know she’s engaged,” he said peevishly. “And I assure you, our very respectable turn about the decks was taken with the full knowledge and permission of her chaperone.” He was being inexcusably rude, he knew, but the intruder didn’t sound like one of his fellow passengers, and John was in no mood to be lectured on propriety by a _sailor_ , of all people.

“Oh, naturally,” the man agreed, moving out of the sun’s glare so John could see him properly. He was indeed a sailor, and one that John had noticed previously. His height, his lean stature, and his untamed mop of curly hair all set him apart from his fellows. “You’ve been in Delhi, I see.”

“I—” John began, startled. “Well, yes—how can you tell? I can’t imagine I have a reputation to precede me.”

The sailor waved his hand dismissively. “The same way I can tell that you were a soldier, that you’ve an injury to your left shoulder, that your convalescence was long and quite difficult, and that you’re more than a year widowed, although you’ve only recently removed your wedding ring. Simple observation and deduction, nothing more.”

“That... doesn’t really answer my question,” John said, even more taken aback than before.

The sailor rolled his eyes, but continued nevertheless. “Even with the cane, your posture and gait announce your military training quite plainly. You have gun callouses, now softening, and you walk like a man accustomed to marching in heavy boots. The shoulder is obvious; you hold your left more stiffly than your right, and habitually roll it to loosen the muscle. You have visible tan lines at your neck and wrists, now fading—so, you’ve spent years in the sun but have recently been confined indoors. Therefore: a soldier stationed for several years in the tropics, wounded in action about six months ago, and now returning to England as a civilian? The odds favor Delhi.”

John realized his mouth had been hanging open since the sailor said “gun callouses.” He closed it firmly. “That was… amazing,” he said.

Did the sailor’s cheeks redden even further beneath his frankly appalling sunburn? “Do you really think so?” he said.

“Astonishing, truly,” John assured him.  
  
“Hm. That’s not what people usually say.”

“Oh? What do they usually say?”

The barest hint of a smile lifted the corners of the sailor’s mouth. “Piss off.”

They stared at each other straight-faced for a moment, and then dissolved as one into laughter: the sailor’s low, rumbling chuckle a counterpoint to the breathy giggle John had always found embarrassing but could never quite suppress.

“Two can play that game, you know,” John said, after he’d recovered his composure. “You’re not really a sailor, are you? You speak like an educated man—”

“Sure o’ that, are ye?” the sailor interrupted, accent gone broad and slurry.

“Sure of it,” John said. “Besides, your sunburn gives you away. No one who’s really spent years in the rigging could still burn like that. I can give you a salve for it, by the way. It must hurt.”

The sailor opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a shout echoing across the deck. “Oi, Scott! Get your arse back to work.”

The sailor—Scott, apparently—grimaced. “I’ll find you later,” he said, and strode off down the deck without another word.

John watched him go through half-closed eyes. No, he was no sailor; John would lay good odds on that. What he was in reality John could only guess—the reasons a clearly intelligent, educated young man might want to play at sailor, and over so long and dangerous a journey, were entirely unfathomable. Still, John was grateful for Scott’s presence on the boat, whatever his purpose might be. His company promised to enliven the voyage considerably.

 

* * *

 

 

The remainder of the day passed slowly. Despite his earlier preoccupation, John forgot entirely that Scott had promised to find him later, and the knock on his cabin door that evening came as a surprise. He’d not had a visitor the entire journey, and didn’t find he particularly minded. Meals with his fellow passengers were enough to press the limits of his sociability. It _could_ be Miss Forrester, come to check up on him, but he desperately hoped not. The embarrassment still rankled, and he was in no fit state for company, having already shed his jacket and waistcoat and pushed his braces off his shoulders to swing around his hips.

He wavered before the door for a moment, before pulling up his braces as compromise to propriety. But it was only Scott on the other side of the door, his own jacket draped over one arm and the buttons at his collar undone.

“You mentioned a salve?” Scott said, stepping into the room without waiting for an invitation.

“Yes.” John winced again at the sight of Scott’s red, peeling nose and cheeks. “I know I’ve a jar of aloe in my case; let me just find it.”

“Yes, I already used all of mine,” Scott admitted, looking around the small room, and reading God only knew what in the details he saw there. “I didn’t think I’d burn so badly.”

John snorted. “Skin like that, and you thought you wouldn’t burn?”

“I’ve been in India for six years,” Scott said, mulish. “I thought I could build up a tolerance.”

John pulled his medical case from under the bed and opened it on his small table. “The ship’s doctor doesn’t have any?”

Scott made a derisive sound in the back of his throat. “The ship’s doctor is a butcher in the old barber-surgeon mold. I suspect that amputation is his answer to every ailment.”

“I see,” John said. “Well, you’re welcome to what I have. Sit down,” he added, gesturing to the bed and pulling up the cabin’s one straight-backed chair to sit in front of Scott. “I’m doing this on one condition, though,” he continued, dabbing the aloe gel over the angry, peeling patches on his cheeks.

“Mmm?”

“Why are you really on this ship? You’re _not_ a sailor, I’m sure of it.”

“Yes, congratulations, you’ve successfully observed what’s right before your eyes. It’s astonishing how many people fail to meet even that simple standard.”

John sat back, wiggling the jar of aloe in front of Scott’s nose.

“Your respect for the Hippocratic Oath is heartwarming.”

John smiled and resumed his ministrations. “I’m only curious, but no matter. If you don’t want to tell me who you are—who you _really_ are—then tell me how you knew I was married, earlier.”

Scott hissed as John’s fingers traced a particularly tender patch. “Obvious, really. Your clothes have been mended in several places over the years. The older repairs, at the cuffs and button band, are quite neat, nearly invisible—clearly done by a delicate, practiced hand, most likely a woman’s. The mend in your trousers, however, is much newer and less skillful, which indicates you’re mending your own clothes now. So, a loss.” He turned his head, letting John smooth aloe over the tops of his ears and the nape of his neck. His hair curled in dark unruly waves, brushing against John’s fingers as he worked. “Besides,” Scott continued, turning back to face John. “You lost weight during your convalescence, and haven’t gained it back. A wife would never allow that.”

“Is that what wives do?” John asked. “Feed you up?”

“You’re in a better position to answer that question than I am. Wives are...not really my department.”

Something stirred in John’s chest, low and dark and dangerous. He realized, suddenly, how close together they sat. He’d dragged the chair forward for a better reach, and now he sat nearly bracketed between Scott’s spread knees. “What _is_ your department, then?”

A light sparked briefly in Scott’s eyes—he’d heard the suggestion in John’s question. But it flickered away as quickly as it appeared, and when he answered, his tone was matter-of-fact. “My work, mainly.”

“Which is?” John sat back, let the space between them open up again. Well, perhaps he’d imagined that spark.

“I solve problems. Mysteries, if you’d like to be poetical about it.” Scott’s tone indicated exactly what he thought about the poetical. “I untangle knots that ordinary people—with their ordinary powers of observation—cannot. I’m writing a book,” he added, pride now obvious in his voice. “ _The Science of Deduction._ ”

“And that’s what brought you here?” John pushed the chair back under the table and closed the jar of salve.

“Precisely.” Scott stood, stretching his arms above his head till his fingers grazed the ceiling. _Show off_ , John thought, and absolutely did not let his eyes drift where they shouldn’t. Scott lowered his arms, shook his shoulders to settle his shirt back into place, and extended his hand. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” he said. “Since you did ask.”

 “And I’m—”

 “Doctor John H. Watson, yes, I’m aware.”

 “How could you _possibly_ have deduced that?” John asked. Someone must have told him that, at least.

 Another almost-smile twitched at the corners of Scott’s mouth. “It’s on your case,” he said, nodding toward John’s medical bag still sitting open on the table.

 A beat, a shared look, and then they were both laughing together, the second time that day.

 “Regardless,” Scott said, a few moments later. “I prefer to go by Sherlock, but thought it might be a bit _much_ for the role I’m playing now—”

 “Well, maybe a _bit_ ,” John said, still chuckling.

 “—so the captain and the rest of the crew know me as Bill Scott.” He grimaced, as though the idea of being known by such a plebeian name pained him.

 John just shook his head. As though Scott—as though _Sherlock_ , rather—could really expect a man named “John Watson” to pity him on the subject of work-a-day names.

 “I need to get back to the crew quarters,” Sherlock said. “But I’d welcome some help tomorrow, if you’re inclined. Assuming you haven’t planned another diverting stroll around the promenade with an air-headed debutante.”

 “Miss Forrester is very pleasant company,” John said, oddly compelled to defend her despite his earlier misery. “A bit obsessive on the subject of the weather, I’ll grant you, but that seems to be a common ailment among my fellow passengers.”

 “Then I won’t try to tempt you,” Sherlock said, turning toward the door.

 “No,” John said. “No, feel free to tempt me. That is—” He flushed and cut himself off. _Worse and worse_.

 Sherlock took pity. “I’ll meet you tomorrow at four o’clock, the same place I met you this afternoon,” he said, and slipped away out the door before John could make a further fool of himself.

John puttered around his tiny cabin for a few minutes after Sherlock left, putting away his medical case, hanging up the jacket and waistcoat he’d draped over the chair. He couldn’t help but marvel at how much more interesting this voyage seemed after only two conversations with Sherlock. His new acquaintance was a strange man, to be sure, quite unlike anyone John had ever met—a bit brusque, not terribly tactful, almost too observant for comfort.

 Fascinating, though. Undeniably fascinating.

 John finished changing into his night clothes and climbed into bed. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he stretched out, finally easing the muscles of his thigh, still tense and tight. After so many weeks in a hospital cot, his stroll with Miss Forrester had been an unaccustomed exertion, and both his leg and shoulder protested the strain. He tried not to reflect on the marked change from the days prior to his injury: days when he could march miles at a stretch, the tropical heat and his heavy pack no more than minor hindrances. Days when he awoke eager and ready for action, days when he didn’t have to fear falling asleep at night.

Still, what a relief to be on the right side of the medical case again. The past six months, John had seen far too much time as a patient, and not nearly enough as a doctor. Hard to overstate the sense of rightness he felt to open his bag again, sort through the bottles and jars, and act once again like the professional he’d trained to become. Not thrilling, rubbing aloe on a sunburn, but a start. Certainly a start. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, the quiet life and simple practice that awaited him in England.

He fell asleep with the soft tickle of dark curls ghosting across his fingers, and for the first time in weeks, no nightmares plagued him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first: one thousand and one thanks to the inimitable [redscudery](http://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery/) for the enthusiastic, insightful, and witty beta job. All remaining mistakes, particularly those relating to the past perfect tense, are my own.
> 
> Thanks also to [mydwynter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mydwynter/pseuds/mydwynter/) and [emmagrant01](http://archiveofourown.org/users/emmagrant01/pseuds/emmagrant01/), whose very excellent flash fiction workshop at GridLOCK DC last year planted the seeds of this story. I didn't expect to walk out of there with the beginnings of a novella, but I'm pretty damn pleased about it.
> 
> This fic is completely written, and will be updated once a week.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You are a skilled writer, Watson,”_ his physician had said, upon his final discharge from hospital in Delhi. “I know your mind is troubled by what you’ve seen and endured, but I genuinely believe that writing out whatever happens to you will help to heal your mind—and where the mind goes, the body may follow.”
> 
> “Nothing happens to me,” he’d said at the time, not bothering to disguise his bitterness.
> 
> _In which something finally happens to John Watson._

John awoke slowly the next morning, eased into consciousness by the sway and creak of the ship around him. He felt…brighter, somehow, as though he had a reason, beside force of habit, to open his eyes. It took him a moment to place it, and then he remembered the strange, perceptive ( _and handsome_ , his mind supplied) sailor he’d met the afternoon before and their proposed rendezvous this evening.

He couldn’t begin to imagine what Sherlock’s purpose on the ship might be. Sherlock had implied he was investigating something or someone, but John hadn’t known sort of thing really happened outside of penny dreadfuls. And what sort of investigation might require him to pose as a sailor, rather than a passenger? A sailor might, John supposed, have greater access to the inner workings of the ship—could there be a smuggling plot? Or a problem involving another sailor?

And, most baffling of all, what was he doing that could _possibly_ require John’s help? On that subject, John could not begin to speculate. Nothing for it but to wait and see.

John rose slowly, stretching out the still-tight muscles in his leg and shoulder as much as he could before splashing his face with the tepid water in the basin, combing his hair, and dressing.

He concentrated on putting weight on both legs equally as he walked to the passengers’ dining room, and leaning on the cane as little as possible. He had, after all, suffered no physical injury to his leg in the ambush that left both his shoulder and career torn to pieces. No, the limp and the spasms and the constant dragging pain had developed later, and no one, least of all John, could explain why. It seemed the sort of thing he ought to be able to steel his mind against and simply ignore, but the pain was real, for all that the wound itself was not.

John shook his head against that melancholy—and frankly futile—train of thought as he pushed open the door to the dining room, and settled himself down with breakfast and tea. Miss Forrester smiled when he glanced her way, but she was already occupied in conversation with an older man to whom John had not yet been introduced. Matthewson? Milverton? Magnussen? Something of that nature, at any rate. A civil servant, as far as John knew, returning to England for a sabbatical. Miss Forrester’s companion, Miss Morstan, a blond woman of about John’s age, sat nearby with an odd, almost distressed expression as she watched their conversation. As chaperones went, Miss Morstan had seemed the relaxed sort, so her thinly-disguised worry struck John as strange. He resolved to ask her about it when they spoke next.

After breakfast, he had nothing at all to occupy his day until his meeting with Sherlock that evening. The day rolled out before him, a parade of empty hours, that until yesterday would have filled him with quiet dread. He’d spent years at the beck and call of Her Majesty’s armed forces, fantasizing about the days he might while away in leisure, but now that he had innumerable such days, they held no savor at all. He had not realized, till now, how desperately he needed to be occupied, to be of use.

He returned to his quarters and made his narrow bed neatly, plumping the pillow and pulling the sheets taut, and hanging his night shirt on the hook behind the door. That accomplished, he opened his trunk and rummaged for his pen, ink, and journal, and sat himself at the desk with a blank page spread invitingly before him.

 _“You are a skilled writer, Watson_ ,” his physician had said, upon his final discharge from hospital in Delhi. “I know your mind is troubled by what you’ve seen and endured, but I genuinely believe that writing out whatever happens to you will help to heal your mind—and where the mind goes, the body may follow.”

At the time, John had had no stomach whatsoever for the doctor’s advice, sound as he knew it to be. A gaping void yawned inside of him; what words could he possibly find to describe such emptiness? Even supposing the words existed, why would he want to commit them to paper, to dwell on his misery and memorialize it in ink?

“Nothing happens to me,” he’d said at the time, not bothering to disguise his bitterness.

Now, finally, the tides were turning. He took up his pen and began to write.

 

* * *

 

 

Despite his anticipation, the day crept by more slowly than John had hoped, but at last, the hour of his rendezvous with Sherlock arrived. He strolled to their meeting spot, one hand on his cane and the other in his pocket, in what he hoped was a casual manner. Though he was not, so far as he knew, violating any of the ship’s laws, something about their appointment felt illicit, a little dangerous. The thrill of it shivered down his spine.

Sherlock appeared around the corner just as the echo of the final bell was eclipsed by the gentler sounds of wind and sea. “You came,” he said, sounding surprised.

“I said that I would,” John answered. “Have you changed your mind?”

Sherlock shook his head quickly, and his curls caught the rays of the evening sun as they bounced about his ears. “Come,” he said, gesturing, and turned to lead John down the deck towards the area reserved for the crew.

“Am I allowed here?” John asked, as they passed through a doorway and down an unfamiliar passage.

“Not as such,” Sherlock said. “Nor am I, come to that. The secret is to walk as if you’re meant to be here. Skulking stands out, but no one pays any attention to a confident man.”

It turned out not to matter: they didn’t see any other crew members before Sherlock stopped them at a nondescript hatch and pulled a roll of tools from his pocket. “Keep watch,” he ordered, and set to work. John tried to stand guard, but he ended up spending as much time watching the play of Sherlock’s fingers on his lock picks as he did glancing up and down the passageway. In very little time, the lock clicked open with a satisfying sound, and Sherlock herded John through the hatch with a hand on the small of his back.

“Mind your step,” he said. “The stairs are quite steep.”

Indeed, “stairs” was a misnomer; “ladder” would have been more appropriate. John gripped the rail as he descended, waiting for the flash of pain as his leg inevitably failed him.

It didn’t come.

John made it down the ladder without mishap, and tried not to grin in triumph when Sherlock appeared by his side. Not that Sherlock could have seen his expression: he’d pulled the hatch shut behind them, surrounding them in inky darkness, velvety-warm on John’s skin. A few muffled fumblings, the scrape of a match, and the garlic tang of phosphorus, and then the warm glow of a lantern illuminated the space around them.

“So we’re in… the hold?” John asked, looking around curiously.

“Yes, obviously.” Sherlock started forward, weaving among the seemingly haphazard jumble of crates and bushels and casks without hesitation. John followed after him as quickly as he was able, awaiting further explanation of their mission, which Sherlock didn’t seem inclined to give.

 _Fine_. “What are we doing down here?” John asked, crouching down to read the nameplate on the trunk Sherlock had pulled out into the narrow aisle. “Chas. A. Magnussen? Hold on a moment, are we searching through Magnussen’s things?”

Sherlock didn’t bother replying, just rolled his eyes and shoved the lantern towards John. “Hold this while I get the lock.” He sat cross-legged in front of the trunk, draping his small roll of tools over one knee, then gesturing impatiently for John to bring the light closer.

Instead, John set the lantern down on a nearby barrel and folded his arms over his chest. “Sorry, no. I won’t help you dig through another man’s belongings without even a word of explanation. Is this why you’re on the ship? Does Magnussen have something to do with your investigation?”

Sherlock sighed the weary sigh of the infinitely put-upon, and tipped his head back to rest against the crate behind him. “Magnussen _is_ my investigation.”

“I haven’t properly met him yet,” John said. “Who is he?”

“The worst man in the Empire,” Sherlock said shortly, sitting upright again and flashing fire from his eyes. “You’re a well-traveled man, Watson. During your time in India, you must have encountered the snake charmers, with their baskets of cobras. Did you ever look into the baskets to see those slithery, gliding, venomous creatures, with their deadly eyes and wicked, flattened faces? Or perhaps on your previous sea journey, the sailors caught a shark, with its dead, staring, soulless mien? That is precisely how Magnussen strikes me.”

“That’s very poetic,” John said. “But who _is_ he?”

“He’s a blackmailer,” Sherlock said, voice heavy with disgust. “The king of all blackmailers, and heaven help the man or woman whose secrets fall into his grasp. He will wring them out and squeeze them dry, and he will smile while he does it.” Sherlock paused, jaw tight with anger. “He has driven at least three prominent young people of Bombay to suicide, and has ruined the lives of countless more. No one on earth is more foul than he.”

John could do nothing but blink for a moment, surprised by this sudden burst of emotion from Sherlock. This new information threw his observations over breakfast into a startling, unsettling light. What honest business could a man like Magnussen possibly have with Miss Forrester?

“But surely he must be within reach of the law?” John said.

Sherlock scoffed. “In theory, perhaps, but in practice, no. He’s far too canny for that. Say a victim comes forward, and implicates Magnussen. Well, so what? He may serve a few months in prison, but her reputation will still be ruined when he walks free again. No, if he is to be dealt with—and he _must_ be dealt with—it is unlikely to be through the ‘proper channels.’”

John nodded and thought again of Margaret Forrester’s wide eyes, of Miss Morstan’s thin-pressed, worried mouth. “All right,” he said, and picked up the lantern.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, something soft and sincere flickering briefly over his face. It passed in a flash, however, giving way almost immediately to his usual expression of detached concentration as he turned his attention back to the locked trunk. He made quick work of the padlock, bent close to listen for the click of the tumblers, fingers nimble on his tools. This time, John didn’t bother to hide his fascination.

The lock sprang free, and Sherlock set it aside carefully, then lifted the lid of the trunk. John held the lantern higher, curious to see what a man like Magnussen might keep in his sea chest.

Much the same things that a man like John kept in sea chest, it turned out: two well-made suits, carefully folded. One hat box, with neatly-brushed hat. Dress shoes and spats. Assorted nightclothes and undergarments. A finely-bound set of Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,_ which Sherlock took out of the trunk and shook, to dislodge anything Magnussen might have secreted between the pages. Nothing emerged but a few dried, pressed flowers, which Sherlock tucked back between the pages with an irritated sniff. A small collection of pipes, two more books, an overcoat… the pile of possessions beside the trunk increased without revealing anything of use, and Sherlock’s movements grew jerky with frustration.

“This is even more useless than I expected,” he said. “I didn’t imagine we’d find his account books here, but I thought there might be some small thing to go on, at least.”

John reached out to run his fingers along the lapel of the overcoat. The wool was high-quality, dense and smooth, with a subtle herringbone weave. Not terribly practical in the south of India, but perfect for the cold, spreading damp of an English winter. “This is a beautiful coat.”

Sherlock nodded absently. “Everything in this trunk has been of excellent quality. Better, I think, than a man of his position should be able to afford.”

“He didn’t come from money?” John asked.

“Mm, no. Self-made, so far as I can discover. Although ‘self-made’ implies a degree of honest hard work, which certainly doesn’t apply in this case. No, he stole this false respectability entirely from the pocketbooks of the innocent.”

“I noticed—” John began, unsure of what he actually suspected. “I noticed him speaking rather closely with one of the other passengers this morning, a Miss Margaret Forrester—the same woman I was walking with yesterday. She did not look happy about the conversation. Nor did her travelling companion, come to that.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. “What can you tell me about her?”

“She’s engaged, as you surmised. I don’t recall her fiance’s name, but I believe he has land in Dorset. Her mother is deceased; her father was with the East India Company, but now works for the Crown.”

“Is she traveling with her father?”

“No, only with her companion, Miss Mary Morstan. I’ve not spoken to her as much.”

“Try to,” Sherlock said, reaching his hand into one of Magnussen’s shoes and feeling about. “It might be helpful.” He paused, and seemed to be hesitating over his next sentence. “How do you…judge their relationship?” he asked finally.

John shrugged. “I couldn’t say. They seem friendly with each other; I don’t think Miss Morstan is terribly overbearing, as chaperones go. And they are rather close in age, which must help.”

“ _How_ friendly do they seem with each other?”

John cocked his head, not entirely sure he understood the question, and Sherlock sighed in impatience. “Magnussen prefers to target...those who love others of the same sex,” Sherlock said. “That’s why his victims can’t go to the authorities for help; they stand to lose more than Magnussen does.”

John blinked slowly. “And you’re asking if Miss Forrester and Miss Morstan are…?”

“Lovers, yes. I imagine I could deduce it if I saw them together, but unfortunately my position as a member of the crew, while necessary, makes passenger interaction difficult.”

“I’ll… try to observe,” John said, still absorbing this possible new perspective on the women’s friendship. He cast his mind back over what he’d seen of the two of them together: heads bent close over a book, laughter and shared smiles. A different light, certainly, but perhaps not an impossible one.

“Yes, do,” Sherlock said. “Unless you’re about to be appalled at my sympathy for the plight of sapphists and sodomites, but if that’s the case, please do it elsewhere. And leave me the lantern, if you’d be so kind.”

“I’m not appalled,” John said.

Sherlock studied him. “No,” he said finally. “You’re not.” His expression was unreadable. They regarded each other for a long moment, the warm, dimly-lit silence stretching into something heavy and unquantifiable, before Sherlock finally gave his head a minuscule shake. “We’d better pack this trunk back up. My next watch begins soon.”

“Right, of course.” John shook his head and set the lantern on a cask, where it could illuminate the space enough for both of them to work. “What’s the next step, then?”

“His cabin,” Sherlock said, arranging the pipes carefully in their box. “I wanted to check his trunk to be safe, but a man like Magnussen will keep the truly valuable—truly incriminating—material as close as possible. That will require a bit more planning.”

“Just tell me how I can help,” John said.

Sherlock made a thoughtful noise. “It will be helpful having a passenger on my side.”

“Yes, why aren’t you on the ship as a passenger? Surely that would be easier for your investigation.”

“It would,” Sherlock agreed. “But Magnussen moves in the same circles as my brother. He and I have only met very briefly, but he certainly knows _of_ me, and even under an assumed name, it wouldn’t take him long to realize who I am. I’m taking a risk as it is, but I doubt he’ll pay much attention to the crew unless prompted to do so. The longer we can keep him in ignorance, the better our chances of trapping him.”

Sherlock’s use of the word _we_ filled John with warmth. He wasn’t sure what he had contributed to to the endeavor, save holding the lantern, but he could not deny the pleasure of being thought useful again.

As they continued to work, repacking the trunk as close to its original arrangement as possible, John began to relax. The heart-pounding excitement of sneaking through forbidden areas of the ship faded as he worked side-by-side with Sherlock, secluded from the clamor and crowd of the rest of the ship. They fell into a comfortable rhythm, moving around each other with an ease that belied their short acquaintance. John could not recall the last time he’d felt so natural so quickly around another person. Even when he’d married Jane, God rest her, and they’d set up their tiny household together, the first few weeks had been awkward—bumping elbows as they moved around each other in the cramped kitchen, startling to find another person in the parlor. This right now, with Sherlock, felt more like he and Jane had months later: at ease in each other’s presence, their movements a smoothly choreographed dance.

Then the hatch door groaned behind them, and the thud of heavy boots on the stairwell interrupted their quiet rhythm. John turned to Sherlock in alarm, and shoveled the last few items into the trunk as Sherlock pinched out the lamp. John tried not to panic at the sudden plunge into darkness, but he was trapped in an unfamiliar place, with an unknown enemy steadily advancing. ( _No_ , he told himself. _Not an enemy, only sailors, only sailors, and no one looking for a fight._ ) His heart raced, and he focused on keeping his breathing even. Meanwhile, the footsteps advanced ever closer, and the glow of a lantern shone on the ceiling.

Someone grabbed his arm, and he started, violently but silently, before remembering it was only Sherlock, tugging him into a better hiding spot. He relaxed, and they wormed their way backwards into a narrow space between and slightly behind two casks.

John had only taken a brief glance around him when they’d first entered the hold, but he thought they were wedged in near the deepest corner, as far from the hatch as they could get. Hopefully, hopefully, whoever else had joined them down here had business closer to the hatch and would not come near their hiding place. He focused on keeping his breathing light and even, on deliberately relaxing the tight-coiled tension in his muscles.

Behind him, Sherlock shifted slightly. It allowed them to move further into their hiding place, but it also pressed the entire length of Sherlock’s front along John’s back, and that… well, that threatened to make his heart race for reasons entirely unrelated to fear of discovery. Sherlock’s heartbeat seemed to echo in John’s chest, and each exhalation sent another puff of humid air along the nape of John’s neck. Gooseflesh broke out along John’s arms and the small hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Thank God the darkness hid his reactions somewhat; he didn’t want Sherlock to get the wrong idea.

 _Is it the wrong idea, though?_ asked a small voice in the back of his head.

Of course it was. He was touch-starved, nothing more. For all that he had just spent months in hospital, he’d been touched surprisingly rarely, especially toward the end. He’d simply laid there, those last few weeks, waiting for his body to heal, waiting for his life to begin again. Waiting and waiting, utterly without the comfort of a familiar hand.

No surprise, then, that the warm pressure of another body against his would affect him so. Man or woman, it didn’t matter, not after this long ( _not ever_ , that tiny treacherous voice in his head corrected). But the slam of Sherlock’s heart against his ribcage _wasn’t_ arousal, John reminded himself, and the occasional tiny hitches in his breathing weren’t either. Just nerves, John told himself. Just small spaces, just the fear of discovery. But not John, never John.

He took another steadying breath, and tried to focus his attention elsewhere. The two intruders were talking at the opposite end of the hold, clearly unaware of John and Sherlock’s presence. Their voices echoed strangely in the irregular space.

“Best hope the Captain doesn’t see what a bloody tangle you’ve made o’ this,” one of them said.

“Yeah, well, if he hadn’t been in such an almighty hurry to get out of port maybe I could’ve done it better,” his companion replied, irritated. “Dunno what lit such a fire under his arse, but I could’ve done without it.”

The first man grunted his agreement, but any further conversation was muffled by the scrapes and thumps of cargo being shifted.

Eventually the two men must have found what they were looking for, as they retreated without exploring any deeper into the hold. Still, John didn’t fully relax until he heard the slam of the hatch door above them. Behind him, Sherlock let out his breath in a gust that ruffled the fine hairs on the back of John’s neck. He stumbled out into the relative open of the passageway with the adrenaline of a near-miss (and nothing more, he reminded himself) still singing in his veins.

“Bloody hell,” he said, bending over and bracing his hands on his knees.

The flare of another match illuminated Sherlock’s grinning face. “Bit more exciting than sitting in your cabin,” he said.

John just snorted. He couldn’t disagree, not really, and what did that say about him?

Sherlock turned in place slowly, making sure that everything had found its way back into the trunk. They made their way back to the ladder and the hatch, and paused. “Can you find your way back to your cabin from here?” Sherlock asked. “My watch is about to start, and the boatswain is a bastard about timekeeping.”

John nodded. “I’ll be fine.” And he would, but he wasn’t really sure he wanted to go back to his cabin. He felt awake now, in a way he hadn’t that morning—indeed, in a way he hadn’t since before his injury. Perhaps even before Jane’s death.

In the end, it took him three circuits of the upper docks and several chapters of his novel to quiet his mind enough for bed.

He didn’t realize until he extinguished the lamp that he’d gone the whole evening without using his cane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as ever, to [redscudery](http://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery/) for the beta and the good folks of the Antidiogenes Club for listening to me yell about this story since sometime in August.
> 
> Full disclosure: I stole some of Sherlock's descriptions of Magnussen (the really eloquent ones, mostly) straight from Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> And if you're bored waiting for next week's update, come see me on [tumblr](http://www.onethousandhurrahs.tumblr.com/)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He felt, in some ways, as he had the first time he’d met Sherlock: laid open, all his secrets bared to the sea and sky. But where Sherlock’s all-knowing gaze, sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel, had felt impartial and safe, Magnussen’s assessing stare sent shivers down John’s spine. The way Magnussen looked at him now, flat and unafraid, made John’s stomach roil with an awareness of every sin he’d committed, in and out of the darkness.” 
> 
> _In which John Watson meets Charles Augustus Magnussen._

As he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed the next morning, John reached automatically for his walking stick, only to remember that he’d left it in the hold the previous night. Whatever strange magic Sherlock had worked, John hoped it would last, because the prospect of limping into breakfast didn’t appeal in the least. He was tired of the pity, tired of watching people wait to see whether his leg would give out entirely.

He dressed with no pain beyond the expected stiffness in his shoulder (and that, he supposed he must tolerate—at least he had actually been wounded there) and strode into the passengers’ dining hall on two strong legs. He seated himself beside Miss Forrester and Miss Morstan with a smile, and for first time he did not have to feign cheerful interest in Miss Forrester’s breathless, excited report of the day’s prospective weather. He had not felt so free since before he was wounded—since before Jane died, perhaps. Astonishing, how accustomed one could grow to pain, until it disappeared and revealed its true weight in the lightness it left behind.

“I see you’ve left your cane behind today?” Miss Morstan asked, while Miss Forrester paused for a sip of tea.

“I have,” John said. “I don’t know what changed, but my leg has felt much stronger this morning. Good as new, really.”

“It’s the sea air, I am sure of it,” Miss Forrester said. “It’s really quite magical.” She grew even more cheerful, a feat John had not thought possible. “I wish we could take our meals out-of-doors when the weather is so fine. Or our tea, at least.”

“I don’t imagine the waiters would find that as pleasant,” John said, watching the youngest of them struggle to manage his carafe of hot water. “But it would be refreshing.”

Miss Forrester sighed wistfully and turned to Miss Morstan. “Perhaps we might have outdoor tea at Chesterfield.”

“Perhaps,” Miss Morstan agreed, and she could not quite suppress a fond smile. “I daresay you’ll be able to charm the housekeeper into nearly anything, if you put your mind to it.” From her tone, Miss Morstan was well aware of Miss Forrester’s charm, and John wondered again about the depth and breadth of their history together.

Further down the table, another passenger smacked the flat of his hand against the table, rattling the teacups and startling everyone. “It’s disgraceful, I say,” he said, in booming tones that carried down the length of the dining table.

“No one is arguing that, dear,” his wife said, but he ignored her, and shook off the placating hand she lay on his arm.

“It’s no wonder our holdings abroad are slipping, the way these men behave when they get back home,” he continued, as his wife’s face turned redder and redder. “Mary Anns and sodomites, parading about the parks with no shame at all, wearing their green carnations like… like bloody _regimental colors_.” John stiffened, and curled one hand into a fist under the table. He shouldn’t listen, he knew he shouldn’t listen, but the man was just so _loud_.

“This is hardly appropriate talk for the breakfast table, dear,” his wife said.

Beside John, Miss Morstan sat up straighter and drew in a deep breath. “Perhaps,” she said, then paused and began again, more confidently. “Perhaps, Mr. Braithwaite, if returning soldiers were provided with enough to live on, they might not feel compelled to support themselves so. But men must eat, and they must earn their bread somehow.”

“Better to starve than earn it on their knees,” Braithwaite said, voice thick with disgust. “Look here, Dr. Watson—you’re a soldier, are you not?”

John forced a polite smile, though it made his skin crawl. “I was, yes. I served with the Army Medical Corps, but I was invalided out six months ago.”

“And now you’re back to London?”

“Yes,” John said slowly, unsure where Braithwaite was taking this line of questioning.

“You have prospects, I imagine? You’re young, and you seem sound enough now. Get married, settle down, make yourself respectable. It isn’t so difficult if you’ve a will, surely.”

John felt his smile transform into a painful rictus. The nerve of that man, the bloody _presumption_. His fingernails dug into the tender skin of his palm. “I have already been married once, but my Jane was taken by consumption. As to the rest, I hope to stay with my sister until I can establish myself in a civilian medical practice.” He wasn’t sure why he shared even that much; he owed Braithwaite no explanations, and he hadn’t the slightest desire to prolong the conversation.

Braithwaite nodded, apparently pleased by John’s answer and immune to his discomfort. “See?” he said to the table at large. “Ambition and honest work, that’s all that’s required. These other so-called men aren’t in desperate straits, they’re simply lazy.” A few heads nodded around the table, although most of the passengers seemed more interested in staring fixedly at their plates than joining the conversation.

“Just so,” Magnussen said, speaking for the first time. “We must make more efforts to weed such men out, before they can weaken the moral fiber of our military. It’s the only way Britain can maintain her rightful Empire.”

John pressed his lips together, willing himself not to engage further. He wasn’t an example to anyone, and it burned to be used as one—and by such a self-important windbag of a man, too. Beneath the table, Miss Forrester squeezed his wrist, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Morstan flash him a quick look of sympathy.

It helped.

“Not everyone is lucky enough to have a sister who will take him in, and medical training to fall back on,” John said, after taking a moment to gather himself. “Nor even the two arms and legs he was born with. I’m very grateful to be in the position I am.” He stood abruptly, praying that his leg would hold. “Now, however, I must take my leave. Good day, ladies.” He nodded curtly, and quit the room just a little faster than was polite.

John fled to the furthest reaches of the deck, leaning heavily on the railing and suddenly afraid he’d be sick. Braithwaite’s self-satisfied expression and his pompous, all-knowing tones roiled in the pit of John’s stomach. How dare he, how _dare_ he use John’s life for his own little moralizing sermon? What in God’s holy name did a fat businessman like Braithwaite know about war and violence and the sickening, stomach-churning _terror_ of watching another man’s life pulse out between your fingers in a flood of scarlet? Men you’d eaten with, laughed with, slept beside, _loved_?

People always assumed it was his own trauma that haunted John’s nightmares, the echoes of his own pain that kept him awake at night.

It wasn’t. It never had been. By the time that bullet knocked him flat, in a hot and blood-soaked Delhi side street, he’d been suffering nightmares for months. Men bled out under his hands over and over again, an endless parade of dead comrades: Inniss and Carothers and Young, Chana and Tripathi, all the others whose names he’d never learned. He awoke soaked in sweat, and in the dark of the barracks it looked like blood.

When his own bullet finally found him, all he remembered thinking was _please God, let me rest._

And now? Now he’d have nothing but rest, and no future had ever seemed so wearying. Unfit for the Medical Corps, shuffled off back to London and civilian obsolescence. He’d live with Harriet and they’d try not to kill each other. He’d save his tiny pension, week by week, and if he was very, very lucky he’d find a fellow doctor to share a practice.

He didn’t really imagine he’d be lucky.

He saw the years flowing by, patient after patient, season after season. Respectable suits and staid hats, a walking stick instead of a gun, silent evenings in a cramped drawing room instead of raucous laughter around a campfire. He could barely breathe under the weight of such endless years.

He adjusted his grip on the railing and leaned further out, breathing in the salt-smell, watching the water churn. How easy it would be, how very easy, to simply… lean a little further forward. Overbalance. Not a jump but a fall, a quick cold plunge, and then: rest. No effort at all, really. Easy as thought. Easy as falling asleep.

(Probably _easier_ than falling asleep, these days.)

No. _No_. He gripped the ship’s rail tightly enough to turn his knuckles white, and watched the water churn away behind them. A splinter pressed into the meat of his palm; he squeezed the rail harder. Slowly, slowly, exhaustion crept in to replace his anger and he sagged forward to lean more heavily on the rail. Braithwaite could go hang, for all he cared, but Braithwaite was not the source of his misery.

John wasn’t even sure, anymore, what the source of his misery _was_.

The gunman who’d shot him? The gunman’s captain, or his own, ordering them into battle? Their generals? Their sovereigns? The relentless outward push of the Empire’s borders and the natives’ corresponding resistance? God, fate, chance?

He didn’t care.

It hardly mattered anyway, and eventually he turned away from the rail, leaning back against it and staring over the deck of the ship instead. That churning gray water had a voice, and it whispered dark, tempting words into his ear. Better not to stare too long or listen too hard.

Beyond him, the ship crawled with life. The clear sky and soft breezes of mid-morning had lured most of his fellow passengers out onto the decks, though none approached him. A little further away yet, sailors swarmed the rigging, moving up and down the masts with an efficient and carefree grace. Most had bare heads and rolled-up shirtsleeves, and their tanned and muscled forearms gleamed with sweat.

One in particular stood out, taller than the rest, with dark curls that glinted in the sunlight. John could tell, now that he knew to watch for it, that Sherlock was no sailor, and he was sure the crew had guessed it as well. But he doubted it was obvious to the casual observer. Sherlock moved with confidence, worked with energy, and if he was, on occasion, half a beat behind his fellows, it only stood out because the rest of the crew worked in such close harmony.

As John watched, Sherlock swung himself up onto the ratlines, climbing up towards the sails with impressive speed. The distance seemed dizzying, and the movement of the ship only exacerbated the sway of the rope ladder, but he didn’t hesitate or look down. John wasn’t quite close enough to see, but he could easily imagine the way Sherlock’s arms would flex as he pulled himself up, the twist of his shoulders and the curl of his feet. He imagined the fine hairs at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, sweat-damp and curling, the heat rising from his body—

John cut off that train of thought firmly, before it manifested in ways unfit for broad daylight on the deck of a passenger ship.

“An impressive display, is it not?” said a soft voice beside him, and John startled to see Magnussen leaning on the rail not two feet away. So absorbed had he been in his observation of the sailors—of Sherlock—that he hadn’t even heard the man approach.

“Indeed,” John agreed. “I don’t imagine I’d be quite so sanguine perched on a beam that high above the ocean.”

Magnussen hummed. “I must apologize for this morning,” he said, though he didn’t sound particularly apologetic. “It must be difficult to hear such things about your former brothers-in-arms.”

John pressed his lips together and considered his words carefully. “Certainly, yes. But also… well, it galls to be reminded that I am no longer a soldier.”

“Oh, no doubt, a young, energetic man like you. I imagine even London will seem quite quaint after the exotic temptations of the East.”

“I— yes, perhaps. I suppose.”

“Though of course there are plenty of temptations to be found in London, if you know where to look.”

John cocked his head. “Yes, I’ve no doubt there are. But to be honest, Mr. Magnussen, if you’re fishing for something here, you’ve cast your net on the wrong side of the boat.”

Magnussen chuckled, and John was certain he meant it to sound jolly. “No, no! Not fishing. Merely making conversation. But I can see that I am making you uncomfortable, and I should much prefer us to be friendly—after all, we still have many weeks remaining on this voyage.” John made a soft non-committal noise, and Magnussen pressed on. “As for safer topics—tell me, have you read anything of interest lately?”

John tried to stifle his sigh. Apparently he would not escape this man’s company easily. “I have been reading Darwin’s _Descent of Man,_ most recently.”

“Ah, of course! A fascinating work, is it not?” Magnussen said. “It seems so apparent, when one looks at the common mass of humanity, how little removed we truly are from the animals, and yet we remain so determined to believe otherwise! So we cover our misdeeds in darkness and pretend that makes us civilized, when our sins are written across our foreheads for anyone with eyes to read.”

John swallowed, and wondered again how much of his previous meditation on the sailors’ physical graces had shown in his face and body. He had not forgotten what Sherlock had said about Magnussen, nor Sherlock’s warnings about the sort of victims Magnussen preferred. He felt, in some ways, as he had the first time he’d met Sherlock: laid open, all his secrets bared to the sea and sky. But where Sherlock’s all-knowing gaze, sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel, had felt impartial and safe, Magnussen’s assessing stare sent shivers down John’s spine. The way Magnussen looked at him now, flat and unafraid, made John’s stomach roil with an awareness of every sin he’d committed, in and out of the darkness.

“Your mention of books reminds me,” he said. “I have just remembered that I promised to lend a new one to Miss Forrester. Please do excuse me.”

Magnussen waved a hand. “Yes, yes, of course. Do give her my regards, please. We have had quite a few interesting conversations lately, she and I.”

John walked away with Magnussen’s parting words cannonball-heavy in his gut. He would have to speak to Miss Forrester and Miss Morstan, and the sooner the better.

John could not, unfortunately, find either of the two women, and the passenger parlor held even less appeal than usual, so he retreated to the safety of his cabin instead. He had no desire to run into Magnussen again—or any of the other passengers, come to that. The morning’s anger had faded somewhat, but he still wasn’t sure he was ready to speak civilly to Braithwaite, let alone face him over a game of cards.

He straightened his room instead, though he left very little out of place, as matter of long habit. He arranged his notebook, pen, and ink in a neat stack on the left-hand side of his desk, and placed his book on the opposite side, within reach of his bed. After a moment’s contemplation, he pulled the small trunk from beneath his bed and carefully unpacked the framed photograph of Jane from its wrappings. They’d had the portraits done for their wedding, though they could barely afford it, and they remained the only pictures John had of Jane, or of the two of them together.

The portrait of Jane alone was John’s favorite: she stood straight and proud, in her best dress with a bundle of flowers cradled in her arms. Though her expression was solemn, her eyes danced with the merry good humor that had captivated John from the moment they had met. It had taken her several tries to compose herself enough for the picture to be taken; she kept looking at her new husband and her new ring and breaking into a smile all over again.

It seemed only a moment ago, and yet lifetimes had passed. The memories stood out bright in his mind, clear as the photograph in front of him, but as though he was viewing them through a glass: he could see, but he couldn’t touch, couldn’t feel. He remembered Jane’s constant smile, the stiff lace at the neck of her dress and the scent of her flowers mingled with the scent of her perfume, but he could not remember how he had felt. Happy, of course: he knew he had been. Deliriously so, but—what had that _felt_ like? He could no longer say.

The man he had been that day, fresh-faced and eager, had been laid in the grave with Jane, had splashed onto the pavement of Delhi with his blood. He knew that man had existed, but he could not remember what it had been like to be him.

John sighed, and placed the portrait back on the desk. Fatigue from his adventure the night before, combined with the ordeal of the morning, was making him maudlin, but there was no need to encourage it. No, he’d finish his straightening, and then perhaps return to his reading until it was time for supper.

 

* * *

 

The knock on the door later that evening roused John from the light doze he had fallen into over his book. “One moment,” he called, pushing himself to his feet and crossing the small distance to the door. He wasn’t at all surprised to see Sherlock on the other side, swinging John’s cane in one hand.

“You left this in the hold last night,” Sherlock said, stepping into the room as though he’d been invited. “I doubt you’ll be needing it again, but I suppose it wouldn’t do to simply leave it where it fell.” He propped the cane up against the wall and sat himself down in John’s chair, stretching his long legs out before him with a pleased sigh.

“Right,” John said. He looked around the room, feeling awkward, before finally sitting back down on the edge of his bed. It felt…strangely intimate, somehow, reclining in bed while Sherlock sprawled in the chair.

“What happened to your face?” he asked, after a moment. He hadn’t noticed at first—distracted, he supposed, by the surprise of finding Sherlock at his door, walking stick in hand—but Sherlock’s richly-colored black eye and split lip were hard to miss.

Sherlock grimaced. “I did tell you, when we first met, that most people _don’t_ find my deductions ‘amazing’ or ‘astonishing.’”

“Astonishingly tactless, perhaps?” John suggested, trying not to smile. The man _was_ injured, certainly, although John couldn’t imagine it was entirely unprovoked.

“Yes. And sometimes they illustrate the point with their fist.” Sherlock paused. “It’s my fault, I suppose. I can usually dodge faster.”

“Well, we all have bad days. Shall I take a look?”

“I’ve had worse,” Sherlock said, but he pulled his chair closer nonetheless.

John found a clean handkerchief and dipped the corner in his basin to dab at the dried blood smearing the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, holding Sherlock’s chin still with his other hand. He held his breath as he leaned closer, trying to keep his expression detached. Sherlock smelled of lemons and tar, soap and sweat and sea salt, and John was struck by the sudden strong urge to bury his face in Sherlock’s neck and _inhale_.

He sat back, silently chiding himself. He rummaged through his medical kit to cover his sudden unease, taking far longer than necessary to find the little jar of collodion to seal the wound. He daubed it on as gently as he could, charitably ignoring Sherlock’s soft hiss at the sting.

Once he was satisfied that the cut wasn’t likely to reopen, he moved on to Sherlock’s nose, wiping away the dried blood around his nostrils and palpating it for breaks. “Bit of swelling,” he said. “But everything looks clear; I don’t think it’s broken. Not much I can do about your eye, unfortunately.”

The uninjured side of Sherlock’s mouth twitched up. “It was worth it.”

“Oh, yes? What exactly did you say?”

“Nothing untrue,” Sherlock said. “I simply…pointed a few things out. His inability to maintain an erection, for instance. His fondness for wearing women’s cosmetics in port.”

John blinked. “Well. You can’t be _surprised_ he took a swing at you.”

“I was only surprised by the speed of his reaction and his frankly impressive right hook. I had assumed his incipient arthritis would slow him down.”

John shook his head, and tried to suppress the inappropriate giggle that threatened to burst out. He was sure he shouldn’t encourage the man, but something about him seemed to draw out John’s laughter and loosen his tongue.

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, while John reorganized the supplies in his case and tried to find his bearings again.

“So why are you so intent on pursuing Magnussen?” John asked. For all that Sherlock had said about Magnussen so far, he’d said nothing at all about his own personal interest.

Sherlock stiffened and sat back, expanding the distance between them. “It’s not enough that he’s a boil on the arse of society, and that his victims deserve justice? Those are your reasons, are they not?”

It was an obvious, clumsy attempt at deflection, but since John wasn’t eager to reveal his own private reasons ( _Because you draw me like a magnet._ ), he let the matter go. “Fair enough,” he said. “What brought you to India, anyway? You weren’t born there, were you?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. I was dragged along by my elder brother in 1873, just in time for the final dissolution of the East India Company.”

“Not a coincidence, I take it?” John said.

“Mm. Mycroft will deny everything, of course, but the entire affair had his sticky, icing-sugar fingerprints all over it.”

“What does he do?”

Sherlock sniffed. “He claims he’s a ‘minor government official,’ but he’s just playing coy. The reality—like his waistline—is much more expansive. He’s an inveterate busybody and a professional eater of pastries,” Sherlock added, in the sulky tones common to younger siblings everywhere.

This time John made no effort to stifle his laughter. After a moment, Sherlock joined in, the deeper rumble of his chuckle rolling down John’s spine like the vibrations of a freight engine.

“Your poor parents,” John said after a moment. “You didn’t give them a moment’s peace, did you?”

“I would have, if they’d allowed me the laboratory I began asking for when I was five. I read chemistry at Oxford, you know, before I was sent down.”

“Dare I ask why you were sent down?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched in a manner John was rapidly coming to love. “I really couldn’t say. It was an eventful evening; it’s all a bit of a blur now.”

“You blew something up, didn’t you?”

Sherlock’s eyes sparkled. “Mmm. Several somethings, if memory serves. To be fair, it wasn’t the hall’s _original_ stonework, it was a frankly hideous eighteenth-century addition.”

“Clearly an overreaction on the university’s part, then.”

“Clearly.”

By the time Sherlock made to leave—far too soon, John thought—John had stretched out full-length on his narrow bed, propped up by the pillow against the wall, while Sherlock had resumed his casual sprawl across John’s chair. The strange intimacy John had felt at the beginning, sharing such close quarters with a relative stranger, transmuted over the course of the evening into something natural and comfortable, a spell he was loathe to break.

He got up when Sherlock did, bracing one hand against the wall out of habit before he remembered his leg no longer betrayed him at random intervals. “Not that you seem to require an invitation, but—you’re welcome to visit whenever you’d like. By evening I’ve rather had my fill of whist and cribbage and whatever other polite entertainments this ship has to offer.”

A smirk, a raised eyebrow. “You’d prefer the impolite entertainments?” Sherlock’s voice at that moment reminded John of nothing so much as the purr of the tamed cheetah he’d met once in Delhi, beautiful, dangerous, and mesmerizing.

John flushed but held Sherlock’s gaze. “Breaking into a fellow passenger’s trunk is hardly a common parlor game.”

“Then I shall be absolutely certain to call on you next time I need to do it,” Sherlock said, and ducked out the door with a wink that left John with a faintly stunned expression and the beginnings of an erection.

When he finally took himself in hand, later that night, he struggled to keep his thoughts to appropriate channels: memories of Jane, or failing that, of other women he’d known. But more persistent images kept intruding on his thoughts of soft hair and soft thighs and soft round breasts. When he finally brought himself off, gasps muffled in the pillow, it was to the memory of a stubbled jaw under his hands, and short dark curls twining about his fingers.

 

* * *

 

 

John felt more himself the following day, refreshed by a good night’s sleep, and Mr. Braithwaite, to everyone’s quiet relief, had the sense to restrain himself to more general subjects at breakfast. Miss Forrester, unfortunately, looked quite a bit less refreshed. Her cheeks lacked their usual healthy flush, and her delicate skin showed dark smudges beneath her eyes.

“Are you feeling quite well?” John asked as they strolled the decks after breakfast. She had tucked her hand around his elbow as she often did, but it seemed to John that she walked more closely, clung to his arm a little more tightly.

“No, not entirely,” she said softly. “But it shall pass soon, I am sure of it, and then everything shall be as it was. Perhaps even better.”

“Are you ill?” John pressed. “Or does something weigh on your mind? You know you may always speak plainly to me, as a friend.”

“No, I am not ill,” Miss Forrester said, but did not elaborate.

They walked in silence for a more few minutes, side by side but alone with their private thoughts. “Is it your upcoming marriage?” John asked, finally. “No one could blame you for nervousness, although I can assure you that matrimony holds nothing to fear.”

“Yes, I suppose that must be it,” Miss Forrester said, though she sounded unsure of it. “I do worry whether Miss Morstan shall be happy in Dorset. It is a very great change, that is all.” She paused and took a deep breath, her hand on John’s arm tightening momentarily. Then she seemed to compose herself, smiling brightly and almost entirely convincingly. “Still, I should not like to dwell on it. Mary—that is, Miss Morstan—and I have just finished reading _Lady Audley’s Secret_ , did I tell you?”

And she chattered amiably of nothing else for the rest of their walk, while John tried to quiet the dull aching fear in his chest—groundless, surely groundless.

Still, he could think of nothing else all that morning. His thoughts chased themselves in circles around his head: Miss Forrester’s breakfast conversation with Magnussen a few days ago. Magnussen’s strange reference to her the day before. Sherlock’s inferences about Miss Forrester and Miss Morstan’s relationship. And now Miss Forrester’s strange bleak mood, her unconvincing assurances that everything would be better soon.

By luncheon, he resolved to find Sherlock and share his worries. He was half-convinced that Sherlock would dismiss his fears out of hand, and provide a perfectly innocent explanation. Of course, he wasn’t entirely sure how to find Sherlock, if he wasn’t on deck, but the ship was only so large, and surely one of the other crew members could point him in the right direction.

He glanced in both directions before letting himself in the door Sherlock had led him through on their previous adventure, but otherwise he tried to look as though he belonged. He paused just inside the door, blinking hard and willing his eyes to adjust to the dim. When he could finally make out shapes again, he set off down the passageway as confidently as he was able.

Below decks, without the horizon and the sea to guide him, John found it much harder to tolerate the constant rocking. As the ship heaved itself over another wave, beams creaking ominously, the unexpected movement sent him stumbling forward into the dark of the passageway.

He fell into something—into some _one_ —warm and solid, and the smell of stale sweat and tobacco filled his nostrils, momentarily overpowering the tar-and-sea-salt air of the ship.

“Careful now,” a soft voice whispered, close in his ear. John felt humid breath on his skin and shivered despite the closeness of the ship. “Anyone could be around.”

John swallowed. “Mr. Magnussen,” he said, trying to be polite despite his distaste.

“Dr. Watson. I’m surprised to see you here. We’re awfully far from your cabin, aren’t we?”

“We’re awfully far from yours, too,” John replied, with more ease than he felt.

“Oh, my business takes me everywhere,” Magnussen said. “Yours, however… is a bit more specific, isn’t it?”

John didn’t bother replying. Magnussen could read a world of information even from his silences; no sense in providing him with more fodder by speaking. That quality should have reminded him of Sherlock, but Sherlock was warm and bright and shockingly, brilliantly _alive_ , where Magnussen had the flat dead gaze of a shark.

“An assignation, perhaps?” Magnussen continued. “It’s that sort of hour, isn’t it? The last watch just ended, and if there’s a certain sailor you’d like to see, well—this would be his best chance to slip away, wouldn’t it?”

“You’ve certainly spent a lot of time thinking about the best way to find yourself in a dark corner with another man,” John said. “I was just after some quiet.”

“And it’s worked, hasn’t it?” Magnussen said, turning quick as a blink to crowd John against a bulkhead. “Quite a bit of privacy to be had, when you know where to look.”

John tried not to shrink back, tried not to show the fear and disgust rising like bile in the back of his throat as Magnussen pressed him harder against the wall. “You’re foul,” he said. “No wonder you have to assault people in dark corridors to get a bit of human touch.”

Magnussen’s lip curled, and he opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say a word, they were interrupted by the appearance of one of the cabin boys, breathless and excited over his errand.

“Mr. Magnussen, sir!” the lad exclaimed. “The captain is looking for you, if you please.”

Magnussen stepped back, straightening his jacket and clearing his throat. “Thank you, lad,” he said, turning away from John without another word.

John slumped back against the wall, blowing out a long breath.

Before he could begin to make sense of that strange, horrifying encounter, Sherlock stepped out of the shadows, jacket draped over one arm. “I’m sorry I took so long,” he said, and pulled John around the corner and into a nearby storeroom before John could think to react.

“Sorry you—what?” John asked. “I was looking for you _._ ”

“Yes, I know, Billy Wiggins told me,” Sherlock said. “He saw you go into the aft corridor and let me know. Bright lad, that one. I shall be sure to keep him around.”

“Oh,” John said, feeling dull and slow, still trying to process the previous five minutes. “So you know what’s happening?”

“Not in detail,” Sherlock said. “You’re worried about something, obviously, and you think it’s pressing, or else you wouldn’t have come looking for me. It’s to do with Magnussen, I presume?”

“And Miss Forrester,” John said. “I think you may be right about her relationship with Miss Morstan. I have seen Magnussen in close conversation with her on several occasions, and each time he leaves her looking more bleak than the last. And this morning—she looks ill, but she will not say what’s the matter. Holmes, I fear the worst.” He took a deep breath, his sense of urgency having rather gotten the better of him, and looked at Sherlock a little defiantly. “Now you may tell me that I’m being a fool, and worrying about this all out of proportion.”

Sherlock looked thoughtful. “No,” he said. “I really don’t think you are.”

“Oh.” That was... not heartening.

“I have a few ideas I can investigate tonight after my watch. Keep an eye on Magnussen, as best you can—or better yet, on Miss Forrester; that’s less likely to arouse suspicion.”

“Right,” John said. “Right, yes.”

“I must return to my duties,” Sherlock said. “But I’ll find you tonight, and tell you what I discover.” He turned to leave, but John reached out to grab his elbow as he passed.

“Just—thank you,” John said. “Miss Forrester and Miss Morstan have been very kind to me, and—well, I appreciate your help.”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “I rather thought you were the one helping _me,_ but however you like. We will do what we can.” He nodded his head as John released his arm. “Until tonight.”

Despite his general distaste for spending time in the passenger parlor, John made his way there immediately upon leaving Sherlock. Magnussen was not there, but to his great relief, Miss Morstan was, sitting at the table with a journal and a pen.

“Might I interrupt you?” John asked, as he approached.

She glanced up and smiled, a little distractedly, but she closed her notebook and gestured to the chair opposite.

“How is Miss Forrester?” John asked. “She didn’t seem herself this morning, and I hope she’s not falling ill.”

Miss Morstan did not answer him for a long moment, or even quite meet his eyes. Instead she busied herself with capping her pen, folding a few loose sheets of paper, and arranging them neatly inside the cover of journal. When she had everything aligned just so, she folded her hands over it all and finally looked at John. “She is resting in her cabin right now,” she said. “But she hasn’t been sleeping well lately. Something has been eating at her for days, but she will not tell me what.”

“Ah,” John said. “She dismissed it when I asked her this morning, but I thought you would know more than I do.”

Miss Morstan smiled sadly. “I used to,” she said. “We are…very close, Margaret and I, and we’ve known each other for many years.”

John pressed his lips together, and weighed the wisdom of his next question. It was not his business, truly, but if someone like Magnussen had made it his… “ _Very_ close?” he asked, hoping she would take his meaning.

She met his eyes steadily. “She is dearer to me than my own soul.”

John nodded, and took a deep breath. “Then there is something you must know,” he began.

Miss Morstan took John’s recitation of his suspicions, and account of Sherlock’s investigation, with admirable calm. Her face paled as he spoke and her jaw tightened, but she did not panic or weep. “That man unsettled me from the very first moment,” she said, when he finished. “He does not seem quite human, not at all.” She took a deep, slow breath and laid her hands flat on the table. “I’m going to look in on Margaret, and try one more time to see if she’ll talk to me. Please do let me know what else you find out.”

“As soon as we know anything,” John promised, and she swept out of the parlor without another word.

 

* * *

 

John didn’t see Miss Morstan, Miss Forrester, or Sherlock for the rest of the afternoon, and he wandered the passenger areas of the ship rather aimlessly, unable to settle on anything, but unwilling to stay cooped up in his cabin. He tried to read in the parlor but couldn’t concentrate on the words, skimming the same paragraph over and over, uncomprehending. In the end, he settled down in a quiet corner to write in his diary. He knew little enough so far, but had an idea that it might be helpful to record events as they unfolded, not for posterity so much as to organize and cement them in his own mind.

At long last, the bell rang for dinner. He forced himself to take the time to properly clean his pen and cap the ink bottle before he made his way to the dining room.

Miss Morstan was there alone, but looking slightly less worried than she had when she left him that afternoon. “She was napping,” she told John in an undertone. “She will not—she has not confided in me yet, but I am hopeful. I did not want to leave her, but she insisted I eat, and asked me to thank you for your kind words this morning.”

“I am glad to hear it,” John said, daring to squeeze her hand briefly before picking up his fork again. “Please let me know if there’s anything at all I can do. If she is ill, I understand she may not want to speak to the ship’s doctor, but I am happy to offer my services.”

“Of course. I am taking her a plate as soon as I finish here, and I shall pass along your good wishes again.” With that, Miss Morstan turned her attention to her supper, and departed a few minutes later with a covered plate for Miss Forrester.

John finished his own food with a slightly lighter heart, feeling sufficiently relaxed to accept another passenger’s offer of a postprandial glass of port in the parlor. He had just raised the glass to his lips with a smile of thanks when Miss Morstan burst through the door, uncharacteristically flushed and looking frantic.

“I cannot find her,” she said, in between panting breaths. “Mar—Miss Forrester. She is not in her cabin, nor mine. I—she was sleeping when I left her half an hour ago.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, gathering herself, and when she spoke again her voice was lower, more controlled. “Please, will you help me search for her?”

“Your companion?” Magnussen said, his voice oily with concern. “Well, she should not to be too hard to find; this ship is not so large, after all. No doubt she’s simply in search of a bit of privacy, or a spot of air on the deck.”

Miss Morstan forced a thin smile. “No doubt,” she said. “Doctor Watson, would you—would you be so kind as to help me look?”

“Certainly,” he said, pushing back the wave of unease that washed over him at Magnussen’s words. He had been at dinner, hadn’t he? But he’d been late, arriving quietly a few minutes after Miss Morstan. John’s unease increased. He stepped closer to Miss Morstan, and took her arm. “Where have you looked already?” he asked, in the most soothing doctor’s voice he could manage.

She swallowed and drew herself up straighter, although she maintained her grip on John’s elbow. “In both our rooms. And I knocked on your door as well, just in case.”

“Mr. Braithwaite and I shall knock on the other passenger cabins,” Mrs. Braithwaite said, bustling forward. “Shan’t we, my dear?”

“Mmm,” Mr. Braithwaite said, hastily gulping the last of his port, but he allowed her to steer him from the parlor.

“Would you prefer to split up, or search together?” John asked.

“It will be more efficient if we split up. If you take the decks, I can go through the remaining passenger areas.”

John nodded, and gave her arm one last reassuring squeeze before he set off for the staircase to the decks.

The sun had just dipped below the horizon, staining the sky and the sea a bloody red. No breeze, and no moon to speak of: it would be a dark, still, humid night.

A scream from below decks rent the silence, and John knew what it meant even before the sound of the waves swallowed the last echoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Notes:**  
>  For the first few decades of sea-faring steamship technology, ships were outfitted with both steam and sail. The last steamships fitted with auxiliary sails were built in 1884. So, assuming a several-decade lifespan for the average ship, it's likely that the _Orontes_ , in 1880, would have had both. Thus, a convenient and historically plausible excuse for Sherlock to get athletic in the rigging.
> 
> Sherlock mentions that he and Mycroft arrived in India in 1873, "just in time for the final dissolution of the East India Company." Beginning in mid-eighteenth century, the EIC maintained administrative and military control of India. In 1858, the Government of India Act transferred the Company's functions to the Crown, and in 1874, the Company was dissolved entirely. This seemed like the perfect opportunity for a young, ambitious Mycroft Holmes to make himself indispensable.
> 
>  _Lady Audley's Secret_ is a real novel, published in 1862 by Mary Elizabeth Braddon. I haven't read the original, but I have read DoctorNerdington's [fabulous Johnlock version](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1715753/chapters/3654548/), and I highly recommend that you do the same. Your life is emptier without that fic in it.
> 
> //
> 
> In case you're curious, John's encounter with Magnussen below decks was the very first scene I wrote for this story, in Mydwynter and emmagrant01's flashfiction workshop at Gridlock last year. I didn't expect it to grow an entire novella, but then, I rarely do.
> 
> As always, an eternity of thanks to RedScudery for the beta and the Antidiogenes Club for the encouragement and enthusiasm.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wasn’t terribly surprised when Sherlock let himself into the cabin some time later. Sherlock didn’t say anything, just pulled off his neck cloth and jacket and let them fall carelessly to the floor before climbing onto the bed opposite John, diary in hand. He leaned back and stretched out his long legs in a mirror of John’s pose, and let his head tip back against the wall with a dull thud.
> 
> “I am so bloody tired,” John said, “of seeing dead twenty-year-olds.”
> 
> _In which John and Sherlock search for answers._

By the time John reached the out-of-the-way storeroom where they had found Miss Forrester, a small crowd had already gathered. Mrs. Braithwaite, hanging on her husband’s arm and sobbing noisily into his shoulder. The ship’s doctor, blinking owlishly, smelling strongly of brandy, and bent over a small crumpled form in the corner. Magnussen, a handkerchief pressed to his mouth, blocking most of John’s view.

And Miss Morstan, her own handkerchief dry and forgotten in one clenched fist, standing a little apart from the others, in the opposite corner from Miss Forrester’s body. She stood as ramrod-straight as John had ever seen her, pale and statue-still, with her eyes fixed on a point somewhere over the doctor’s head.

John pushed his way through the onlookers to kneel beside the ship’s doctor, focusing for the moment on the man beside him instead of the young woman slumped in front of him. “John Watson, MD,” he said. “I served with the Army Medical Corps, and I was…a friend of Miss Forrester’s.”

The doctor sat back on his heels. “Alburn Haye,” he said, wiping a sweaty palm on his trousers before offering it to John. “Ship’s doctor.” The smell of brandy only intensified at close range, and Haye’s nose and cheeks bore the permanent flush of a habitual drunkard.

“So,” John said, turning his attention at last to Miss Forrester. Neither Haye nor Miss Morstan had moved her: she lay curled up on herself in the corner, with her face flushed scarlet and a trickle of bile and blood running from the corner of her mouth to stain the front of her dress. John swallowed hard, and pushed the memories of Jane from his mind.

“Poison, I should think,” Haye said. “Cyanide?”

John nodded, and pressed a gentle hand to Miss Forrester’s dark-flushed cheek. Still warm. Well, they already knew this had happened recently: Miss Morstan had seen Margaret alive only an hour or two before. “Almost certainly. But… self-administered? Or taken unwillingly?”

Haye blinked. “I… how would you tell, do you think?”

John pressed his lips together, easing one of Miss Forrester’s eyelids up. Her eyes were bloodshot, but not alarmingly so. From crying, most likely, but not recently. “A note,” he said. “Signs of a struggle—bruising, defensive wounds, skin flakes under the fingernails.” He picked up her hand, not quite as painfully flushed as her face, and examined it closely. “None of which I can see at the moment, but proper lighting and a magnifying glass might help.”

“Yes,” Haye said, pushing to his feet with a grunt. “Of course, uh. I’ve a table in my… well, I’ll go clear it off.” He left the room in a hurry, and John saw him reach into his pocket for his flask as he went.

John rose and took another look around the room. He spotted young Billy Wiggins, hovering uncertainly in the doorway, and sent him off to fetch someone to help him transport Miss Forrester’s body to Haye’s infirmary. He didn’t ask for Sherlock by name, but he privately hoped Wiggins would have the sense to seek him out. While he waited, he turned back to Miss Morstan, who remained pressed back against the wall, still and silent.

“Should you go back to your cabin, do you think? Or perhaps the parlor?” he asked. “I’ll have someone bring you a cup of tea—”

Her eyes, red-rimmed but dry, flickered over his face for a moment, and she scoffed. “I don’t need _tea,_ Dr. Watson. I need my—” she paused, pressed her lips together hard, and drew a slow breath in through her nose. “I need to know who did this to her.”

“You…don’t believe this is suicide, then?” John asked, regretting the necessary bluntness.

“If it was, then she was driven to it.” Miss Morstan’s voice brooked no argument.

“Then we shall find the person at fault,” John said, with all the confidence he could muster. “I promise you.”

Behind them, Wiggins reappeared with Sherlock in tow, and some of the tension seeped from John’s shoulders. Sherlock barely nodded at John as he passed. Instead, he seemed be to scanning the small room, memorizing every detail. When he finally stepped over to the spot where Miss Forrester lay, he crouched before the body and paused again, tilting his head this way and that to see every angle. When he was satisfied at last, he gathered Miss Forrester’s small limp body carefully into his arms, cradling her against his chest. He continued to subtly study the gathering crowd as they made their way toward Haye’s infirmary.

Sherlock’s tender attitude evaporated somewhat once he had laid her down on Haye’s more-or-less clean table. He lifted open her eyelids, pulled back her lips, slipped down her stockings to look at her ankles—even bent low to sniff at her mouth. Haye looked bewildered for a few moments before he decided he wasn’t needed and slipped out quietly. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief, and returned to his study of Miss Forrester’s right hand.

“For God’s sake!” John burst out, as Sherlock let her hand drop back to the table. “Show a little care, would you?”

“She’s dead, John, I hardly think she minds,” he said, in such a casual tone that John saw red.

“Well, I’m not dead, and I mind quite a bloody lot. She was my friend _,_ and I’ll not see her mistreated.”

“Caring about her won’t solve this faster,” Sherlock muttered, but he gentled his movements, touching her reddened, cooling skin with something closer to respect, and John’s anger subsided.

“I can perform post-mortems, you know,” John added a few minutes later.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “You _can,_ certainly. If you wish to miss everything of consequence.”

John clenched his hand into a fist and forced himself to be civil.  “There isn’t much to miss. Even Haye could see this was cyanide poisoning.”

“Yes, obviously, but why and by whom? Cyanide is easy enough to obtain, I’ll grant you, but I don’t think it’s the sort of thing most well-bred young women add to their trousseaux.” He paused, thoughtful. “Though perhaps it should be.” He bent back to his inspection of Miss Forrester’s fingernails.  “Bring the light closer,” he said, after a moment of silent concentration. “And my magnifier." 

“Where’s your magnifier?” John asked, stepping closer with the lantern and holding it up to light Sherlock’s work space.

“Right front pocket,” he said, not lifting his eyes.

“Jesus,” John muttered, stepping around to slip his hand into Sherlock’s trouser pocket and withdraw the glass. Thank God Haye had already deserted them. He slapped the magnifying glass into Sherlock’s hand, a little harder than he meant, and Sherlock hissed at him. “Careful!”

Finally, Sherlock straightened and wiped off his hands. “I can’t see any signs of force—no bruising, no evidence of assault, nothing beneath her fingernails. So the poison was at least nominally self-administered.”

Sherlock studied Miss Forrester’s lifeless form through narrowed eyes for a moment before reaching forward to pull something from the bodice of her dress: her note.

It was very brief, written in a large and hurried hand on a narrow slip of paper: “ _I am sorry to grieve you so—but I know I should grieve you still worse if I did not act. Please forgive me. Yours ever, MBF._ ”

“What do you make of that?” John asked, peering around to read over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Too early to say,” Sherlock said shortly. “Fetch her diary; we’ll want it.” Then he turned and left abruptly, leaving John standing alone.

John stood in the cramped infirmary for a moment longer, feeling unaccountably lost. Miss Morstan could provide him with Miss Forrester’s diary, if she kept one, and he ought to look in on her besides.

He found her in her cabin, but not alone as he’d expected—instead, she was surrounded by a veritable crowd of the ship’s women, fussing and fretting while she sat frozen in their midst.

John could tell he wasn’t wanted and he left after only a few minutes, diary in hand. He flipped through it briefly once he reached his cabin, but he didn’t know what Sherlock wanted with it, and he’d rather not read more of Miss Forrester’s secrets than he had to. What he really wanted, more than anything, was to sleep, deep and dreamless, but he knew he wouldn’t, not now. Even if he managed to nod off, he’d only be plagued by nightmares that would leave him more drained than he already was.

In the end, he simply sat on his bed, back against the wall, and stared blankly out the porthole, and into the dark night beyond.

He wasn’t terribly surprised when Sherlock let himself into the cabin some time later. Sherlock didn’t say anything, just pulled off his neck cloth and jacket and let them fall carelessly to the floor before climbing onto the bed opposite John, diary in hand. He leaned back and stretched out his long legs in a mirror of John’s pose, and let his head tip back against the wall with a dull thud.

“I am so bloody tired,” John said, “of seeing dead twenty-year-olds.”

Sherlock said nothing, just nudged one foot against John’s. They lapsed back into silence, and John felt a wave of gratitude for Sherlock’s willingness to be quiet, to let the minutes stretch out in front of them. He stared at their feet, tangled together in the middle of the bed, watched the idle stroke of Sherlock’s thumb over the diary’s spine. He even dared, now that Sherlock’s eyes had fallen closed, to lift his gaze to the shadowed planes of Sherlock’s face, thrown into fascinating relief by the lantern’s dancing light.

Anything, anything to not see Miss Forrester’s flushed and lifeless face, and the faces of all the young and vibrant men who had gone before her.

Time slipped by, with nothing by the creak of the ship and the wash of waves against the hull to distinguish one moment from the next.

Finally, Sherlock began speaking, so quietly at first that John wasn’t certain he was even meant to hear. “When I was at Oxford, before I was sent down, I… had a friend.” John’s heart ached at Sherlock’s use of the singular. “Victor Trevor,” Sherlock continued. “He was brighter than most of our fellows, and a very talented cellist. We became quite close, and after I left Oxford, he invited me up to his family’s estate for the Easter holiday. The first week was—well, it was very pleasant.” Was it John’s imagination, or was Sherlock blushing slightly? Sherlock looked down at his hands, still worrying at the corners of the diary. “Then his father came home. He was perfectly hospitable, but at dinner one night I deduced more than I should have. About his past, about his business dealings—I revealed things even Victor didn’t know. All in all, the strain was enough that Mr. Trevor suffered a fatal stroke. In his grief, Victor threatened to make public certain things about my character—to ruin my family as I had ruined his. With Mycroft’s career just beginning to take off, we could not chance it. So Mycroft packed me off to India with him instead, in exchange for Victor’s silence.”

Sherlock lifted his head and met John’s eyes. “I deserved every bit of Victor’s anger,” he said. “But I also know how it feels to have a blackmailer breathing down my neck for...for something I cannot change. If I can spare even a single person that awful fate, I shall feel myself justified.”

“Thank you,” John said softly, and they lapsed back into silence, and he contemplated these new revelations about Sherlock’s personal history and the reasons for his hatred of Magnussen. He’d suspected, of course, that this was personal for Sherlock, and Sherlock had previously hinted that he preferred to the company of men. But to hear Sherlock state it so baldly… John marveled at the trust that revealed. He only hoped he could prove worthy of it.

He closed his eyes and let the rocking of the ship lull him into a doze.

 

* * *

 

 

He awoke an indeterminate amount of time later to the sound of Sherlock rustling around in his trunk. “What—what are you…?”

Sherlock straightened up, brandishing a candlestick. “Enough moping. There’s work to be done.” He dug the melted-down stub of wax out of the candlestick holder and pushed the new candle in. He’d already swept John’s things aside, and spread out Miss Forrester’s diary and suicide note over the table. Apparently he’d overcome whatever quiet mood had seized him earlier in the evening.

“All right,” John said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and rubbing a hand over his eyes. “What can I do?”

“Do you have anything Miss Forrester has signed? A note, perhaps? Even her initials will do.” Sherlock barely looked at him as he spoke, flipping rapidly through the pages of Miss Forrester’s journal instead.

“No, I—wait, yes,” John said, remembering the book she’d lent him a few days prior and pulling it from beneath his bed. He would swear— “Yes. She signed this inside the front cover.”

“Good.” Sherlock took it out of his hands and held it up next to the suicide note. “They match. As I expected, this is her handwriting, her signature. But this isn’t the whole note—it’s been altered.”

John rose to stand behind him, leaning over his shoulder. “See here,” Sherlock said, running his finger along the edge of the paper—smooth at the top but heavily deckled along the other three edges. “The paper’s an odd size, that’s immediately obvious. So it’s been trimmed down—but before or after the note was written?” He bent more closely over the paper, scanning his magnifying glass slowly along the edge of the paper, where the writing crowded close to the top.

“If she’d written her note on a bit of scrap paper,” John began, thinking it out as he spoke, “she’d have left more of a margin, wouldn’t she? As she did on the sides. Even writing in a hurry, no one would start right against the top edge of the page like that.”

“Very good, John,” Sherlock said, and those few words of offhand praise, in that rumbling baritone, warmed John all out of proportion. “This was clearly trimmed down after she wrote it. Look, here and here—” he pointed, following the path of his finger with the glass. “You can see the tips of the descenders from the previous line of text.”

“Why would she cut off a portion of her own note?” John asked.

“Why indeed?” Sherlock said. “It seems more likely someone else found her before we did, and made their own alterations to the scene.” He frowned, and set the note aside. “The last few pages of her diary are missing as well—they’ve been removed cleanly, but there’s an entire signature missing; you can see the gap plainly when the book’s closed. Everything from the past week is gone, and she had previously written an entry almost daily.”

“Perhaps she didn’t want to leave anything incriminating after her death?” John said.

“Doubtful. She’s astonishingly tactless in these pages; I’ve already seen a dozen things she ought to have redacted, if she’d been in a mood to do so.” Sherlock flipped through a few more pages, pausing occasionally to read more closely. “Incidentally, that removes Miss Morstan from suspicion as well—had she been the one ‘editing’ this, there are several pages she’d want to remove, for her own protection. No, the fact that _only_ the most recent pages are missing leads me to conclude they pertain directly to the circumstances of Miss Forrester’s death. If someone else was involved, and had something to hide—”

Just then, the ship’s bells sounded out, and Sherlock shut the diary with an irritated huff. “Duty beckons?” John asked.

Sherlock made a face, disgust and frustration in equal measures. “Terrible timing, as always. I don’t know how I’m expected to get anything done between all these infernal _watches_.”

John stood to see Sherlock out, handing him jacket and the necktie from the floor. “What can I do in the meantime?”

“Nothing. Get some sleep,” Sherlock said, but his tone was more peevish than thoughtful. “You’re no use to me exhausted. Besides, you don’t know what to look for; you’ll miss anything of consequence in the dark.”

“And of course _you’re_ above such petty mortal concerns,” John said, not bothering to conceal the irritation in his voice. He didn’t wait for Sherlock’s reply, just hurried him out the door and shut it behind him a little harder than necessary. “Bloody arsehole,” he muttered, once Sherlock was safely out of earshot.

John sighed, and leaned back against the closed door. Whatever he had said, it was clear as day that Sherlock was tired, too, and—though he’d not come right out and said it—feeling as guilty as John over Miss Forrester’s death. As though he could possibly have predicted it, from so little evidence—as though he could have known that the crisis would be upon them so very soon.

John’s  irritation washed away at this thought. Sherlock put his whole heart into his work, dedicated his mind and his body to it, too. For all that he claimed he didn’t need sleep, John could read weariness in every line of his body when he’d walked through the door. His heart twisted at the memory of Sherlock’s face, drawn and discouraged when he thought John wasn’t looking.

(John found, lately, that if Sherlock was nearby he was _always_ looking. Sherlock drew his eye like the flash from the muzzle of a gun.)

The man _was_ a bloody arsehole, John did not question that—he was rude and overbearing and all too aware of being the most intelligent man in the room—but John could not abandon him now. Even if he were not compelled by his friendship with Miss Forrester and Miss Morstan, even if his sense of justice did not demand it, he could not abandon Sherlock now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts about acute cyanide poisoning: One of the post-mortem symptoms is a deep flush, particularly around the face. Something to do with oxygen absorption and the way it affects the body. Also, relevant to nothing but still interesting, only about 40-60% of the population can detect cyanide by smell. Genetics!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock smiled, a predator’s smile, and a thrill ran down John’s spine. “Oh, well done,” Sherlock said. “Mr. Magnussen likes souvenirs, apparently. Well, we can make use of that.” He slipped the note into his leather wallet and glanced at the clock above the fireplace. “We need to hurry. Hand me some of those papers; with the note in hand I believe we can leave the rest of Miss Forrester’s secrets to the fire.”
> 
>  
> 
> _John and Sherlock explore enemy territory._

A sense of routine more than actual weariness prompted John to change from his day clothes into his nightshirt, but once he was in bed with the lamp extinguished, he fell asleep with surprising rapidity.

And then the narrow, encroaching walls of his cabin fell away and John found himself teetering in the crow’s nest of the _Orontes_. The ship heaved beneath him and the wind howled; the roiling angry sea and the stormy skies blurred together so seamlessly John feared he was underwater already. Beside him, so close in the tiny space that he could feel the cold of her skin even above the cold of the air, Margaret Forrester sagged, lifeless. Her cheeks, her forehead, her lips: all were stained with the same scarlet hue as the blood that trickled from the corners of her half-open mouth.

The scent of bitter almonds filled his nostrils.

Margaret was slipping, falling, and the hungry sea would take her in an instant if John could not keep hold. But his hands had no strength, and her dress, her skin, her hair, all slipped blood-slick between his nerveless fingers. The sea had a voice and a laugh; it howled its victory and mocked his weakness even as it beckoned him down, even as it promised him the long rest of oblivion.

He squeezed eyes tight and wished he could plug his ears, too, could tie himself to the mast like Odysseus. He wrapped his legs around it instead and tried to gather Margaret’s body closer in his arms. She was heavy, so heavy, and the dead weight of her overbalanced the whole ship, pulling them closer to the yawning waves with every second.

From the deck—miles below them, it seemed—voices begged him to let her go, but he could only tighten his grip.

The sea lurched closer. His muscles clenched tight around Margaret and the mast—he could not move, could not let go, could not even keep his eyes shut anymore. He could only cling tight to a dead woman and watch as the boiling sea, dyed red with Margaret’s blood, swept up to engulf them.

A hand gripped his shoulder, hot against the ocean’s chill, and dragged him back from the waves.

He awoke soaked in sweat and fighting, reaching automatically for the gun he no longer kept under his pillow in fear of just such a reaction. He could see nothing in the dark of the room but shadow upon shadow, and the screaming in his ears, the pounding of his blood, obscured every other sound. The taste of blood and almonds filled his mouth.

He struck out wildly, and when his left fist made contact with another body, when he heard the shocked groan of a surprise hit, he pulled back and loosed another punch. This time, a strong hand caught his, and long warm fingers wrapped around his wrist. He struggled, panicky.

“John,” the intruder said. “ _John_!”

 _Sherlock_.

John sagged back against his pillows, winded and suddenly exhausted. “The lamp,” he whispered, voice ragged. “Please, the lamp.”

A brief shuffle, and then the lamp flared to life, illuminating the familiar lines of Sherlock’s face, now creased with worry. “I’m sorry,” John said, low and tired and ashamed, with his face in his hands. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m—it was a nightmare. They are— they—”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said, equally quiet but calm and assured. “It’s all fine, John. I should have known better than to wake you like that.”

John took a breath, deep and deliberate, and tried to slow the racing of his heart through sheer will. His Christian name was soothing on Sherlock’s lips, in Sherlock’s coffee-and-cream voice. The clench in his chest eased, and he sat up straighter. “What do you need?”

“We need to formulate a plan,” Sherlock said, pulling John’s chair closer to the bed and seating himself.

“And we couldn’t do that…not in the middle of the night?” John asked. The fog and panic of his nightmare were receding, leaving nothing but weariness and embarrassment in their wake.

“I think it’s best if we’re seen together as little as possible,” Sherlock said. “It’s uncommon enough for passengers and crew to socialize in the best of times. As things are now, I’d rather not draw attention to either of us, or give the impression of an…untoward relationship.” He cleared his throat, and John wondered, for the second time that night, if he was imagining the faint slow flush that crept up Sherlock’s neck.

“Yes,” John said. “Yes, of course.” He could feel a blush warming his own skin at Sherlock’s suggestion, at…the two of them. At something _untoward_. “That’s… Yes, naturally.”

Sherlock slanted a glance his way, as though he could read John’s thoughts. “It’s rather the opposite of natural, and therein lie the objections.” The corners of his mouth twitched.

John flushed fully crimson at that. “I don’t— That is, I wasn’t—”

“Of course you weren’t,” Sherlock said, but all the sly humor in his tone had fled. “I apologize.” The words sounded wooden in his mouth, and John wondered, absurdly, if he was the one who ought to be apologizing, somehow. “These distractions are pointless; there’s work to be done.”

John cleared his throat awkwardly and tried to push away his traitorous thoughts. “All right,” he said, reaching to pull the lamp closer. “Tell me what we need to do.”

The following day marked the anniversary of the Queen’s coronation, and the captain had declared weeks ago that it would be a holiday of sorts—though John, in his distraction over Magnussen and Miss Forrester, had quite forgotten.

“That’s a convenient coincidence,” John told Sherlock, when he’d explained the part of his plan that hinged on the captain’s announcement.

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Sherlock said, frowning in concentration. “The universe is rarely so lazy. And now, I think, we shall turn that to our advantage.”

 

* * *

 

John stood alone in his cabin the following evening, dressing for dinner and frowning at himself in the small mirror. He didn’t have a large wardrobe in any case, but he couldn’t imagine that even the most dapper gentleman’s wardrobe contained a suit appropriate for a celebratory dinner followed by a spot of breaking and entering. He adjusted his waistcoat and reassured himself yet again that his revolver was suitably invisible beneath the fall of his jacket. The gun’s cold weight, seeping through his shirt, proved comforting. Whatever happened tonight, he would not be caught defenseless.

Finally ready, he squared his shoulders, and opened his cabin door, sparing not a single glance for his walking stick, still propped in the corner where Sherlock had left it. He made his way down the corridor and knocked smartly on Miss Morstan’s door, hoping against hope that she would be willing to accompany him, at least for part of the evening. For her own safety, he and Sherlock had both agreed she ought to be seen there.

Her eyes were more deeply shadowed than they had been before and her wan face and thin-set mouth spoke to the depth of her grief. Still, she wore a dinner dress, and her hair was carefully curled. “May I escort you to dinner?” he asked, more optimistic than he had been five minutes before.

“I am not much in the mood to celebrate,” she said, but there was no real finality in her rejection.

“No,” John agreed. “I don’t imagine many of us are. Still, a distraction may do you some good, and a hearty meal even more so.”

She nodded once, and her shoulders sank just a little in acquiescence. “I cannot promise to stay through pudding,” she said. “Certainly not through the concert following.”

“I should not ask you to,” John said, offering her his arm. “I doubt I will stay for the concert myself; to be honest, I’ve quite lost my stomach for patriotic tunes.”

Miss Morstan choked out something that might almost be a laugh, humorless though it was, and they passed the remainder of the walk to the dining room in silence.

The crowd that greeted them in the dining hall was almost boisterous, despite the tragedy that still overshadowed the ship, and the room was more full than John had ever seen it. The piano in the corner had been uncovered and pulled away from the wall, and an older man sat at the bench, running through scales and warming up. The waiters bustled from table to table, refilling glasses and clearing dishes. John spotted Wiggins among them, and caught his eye. Billy winked at him and nodded his head toward a different table before another passenger pulled him away. John followed the line of his nod and spotted Magnussen, already seated and comfortably begun on his meal. John felt something in his stomach unclench very slightly.

One piece in place.

He pulled out a chair for Miss Morstan near the end of Magnussen’s table, though it made his hair stand on end to do so. “Trust me,” he whispered, leaning close to Miss Morstan, who had stiffened in discomfort upon spotting their table mate. “I am not doing this to be cruel.” He had no desire to even breathe the same air as Magnussen now, but needs must.

A cabin boy brought out their first course and filled their glasses as the pianist launched into a lively rendition of Mendelssohn’s _Midsummer Night’s Dream_. The revolver tucked into John’s waistband pressed painfully against his lower back when he leaned back in his chair. He missed the comfort of his holster.

Gradually, he fell into the flow of his dinner companions’ conversation, and beside him Miss Morstan relaxed by increments. By the time their second course arrived, she was speaking with some animation to the woman on her left, who had apparently discovered Miss Morstan’s strong opinions on the subject of Thomas Hardy. The company, the food, and the wine had brought some of the life back to her eyes. It would not last, John knew—grief was cannier than that, and more persistent. But it heartened him nonetheless, and made him feel less guilty about his plan to slip away.

Time to begin, then. He took a deep breath, frowned, and pressed a hand to his stomach. A moment later he pushed his wine glass away, and gestured to one of the waiters for more water.

The man across from him looked concerned. “Are you quite all right?” he asked.

John winced a bit and hesitated. “I’m not so certain,” he said. “I’m feeling quite unsteady all of a sudden.” He shook his head. “I really thought I had adjusted to the sea by now.”

The man smiled in sympathy. “Indeed. My wife is still abed most of the day, living on tea and toast. And when we disembark it will begin all over again—the docks themselves seem to heave.”

John shuddered. “I think I may heave,” he said, and prayed it wasn’t too dramatic. By this time Miss Morstan had turned back to him, her face pinched with concern. He made an apologetic face. “I think I had better lie down. I don’t feel well at all.”

“Of course,” she said. “Shall I have someone look in on you later?”

“No, no,” John assured her. “Just a touch of seasickness. I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”

“They do say that doctors make the worst patients,” she replied, gently teasing. “Still, you know best. Get some rest.”

“I am sorry to abandon you,” he said, rising. He grimaced again, and leaned on the back of his chair for a moment. “But I really do feel dreadful.” He raised his voice just slightly, hoping it would carry to where Magnussen sat a few chairs down. Magnussen glanced up, his eyes flickering over John in a cursory way before he turned back to his conversation.

John made his way toward the door, walking gingerly and trying to look suitably uncomfortable. He’d never considered himself a particularly convincing actor—and indeed, Sherlock had expressed some qualms about John’s ability to carry off this particular portion of their plan. Still, this was feigned seasickness, not _Richard III_. He pressed a hand to his stomach once more, for good measure, and stepped out into the hallway.

 

* * *

 

Once out of his fellow passengers’ sight, John straightened and hurried toward the passenger cabins. He had never been to Magnussen’s cabin, but of course Sherlock already knew the cabin number--deduced it from Magnussen’s brand of pomade, no doubt. As planned, he was already there. John knocked twice, very softly, on the door, and a moment later Sherlock opened it just a crack. “Hurry up,” he said, and pulled John inside.

Magnussen’s cabin was more spacious than John’s, with room for several chairs around the table, and a built-in wardrobe in one corner. And—most surprising of all—a fireplace. John couldn’t imagine it got much use, on the Bombay-to-Suez route, but there was ash in the grate just the same. How odd. He moved closer, suddenly suspicious. “Have you looked in the fireplace?” he asked.

Sherlock didn’t look up from the stack of papers he was sifting through at the table. “Not yet. You do it.”

John shrugged and knelt in front of the fireplace, still faintly surprised when his leg offered no protest.

Magnussen had not been burning wood, that much was clear. Bits of charred paper curled in the grate, and the ash eddied and floated with John’s every exhale. He blew the ash away as gently as he could, and gathered the larger, less-burnt scraps into a small pile at his feet. When he had collected all he could, he transferred them carefully to the desk, where the light was better, and spread them out.

Sherlock glanced up briefly from his pile of documents, then did a double-take, and leaned closer to John. “Those are her diary pages,” he said.

“It looks like it,” John said, squinting down at the charred scraps. “That’s her handwriting, certainly.”

“Match them up,” Sherlock ordered. “See if the rest of her suicide note is there, too.”

“I’ve got… eight bits of paper, here,” John said. “Eight tiny _, burnt-up_ bits of paper. And I’m an idiot, remember?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I told you not to take that personally; practically everyone is. But fine, look through these instead.” He slid his stack of papers towards John. “These were all in his lock box. Quite a bit of incriminating evidence, all valuable, but I’m particularly looking for material concerning our captain, and a man named Nigel Whitmore, late of Bombay.”

“You think Magnussen has the captain under his thumb?” John asked. He’d assumed—perhaps naively—that the captain would be on the side of justice, should the worst come to pass.

“I think it’s foolish to assume he doesn’t,” Sherlock said. “And the other sailors’ talk hasn’t inspired a great deal of confidence.”

“Wonderful,” John muttered, and commenced skimming through the contents of Magnussen’s lock box.

He tried not to read every document individually. They didn’t have the time, and besides, it felt like piling one violation on top of another. Bad enough that Magnussen knew these strangers’ secrets; there was no reason for John to know them as well.

They worked together in steady silence for some time, with nothing but the background hum of the ship’s engines and Sherlock’s occasional sigh of frustration to disturb. John reflected, once again, on the ease of their companionship, the way the stiff and brittle band around his chest seemed to loosen whenever he was in Sherlock’s presence, even as his heart raced with danger or laughter or… or arousal.

John could admit that now, if only to himself. The flickering lamplight lent a golden glow to Sherlock’s face, set in concentration, and caught on the edges of his curls in coppery glints. A rare and alien beauty shaped his features, but it was Sherlock’s mind, sharper than the finest scalpel, that truly made him shine.

John realized he was staring, mesmerized by the tiny crease in Sherlock’s brow and the flicker of his sea-and-sky eyes over the puzzle in front of him. He shook his head, and forced his attention back to the matter at hand. Halfway through the stack already, and though Magnussen’s dossier of victims bulged, John saw no sign of their captain, of Miss Forrester, or of Nigel Whitmore. He flipped another page, and wondered how much time they could afford to spend here.

“Holmes!” he said. “Holmes, this is the remainder of her—of Miss Forrester’s—note. Look.” He slid the half-sheet of paper across the table. The handwriting was unmistakable, by now, and the salutation (“My dearest Mary,”) had caught his eye immediately.

Sherlock smiled, a predator’s smile, and a thrill ran down John’s spine. “Oh, well done,” Sherlock said. “Mr. Magnussen likes souvenirs, apparently. Well, we can make use of that.” He slipped the note into his leather wallet and glanced at the clock above the fireplace. “We need to hurry. Hand me some of those papers; with the note in hand I believe we can leave the rest of Miss Forrester’s secrets to the fire.”

John’s sense of urgency increased along with the thrill of at least a partial victory. Surely, surely that note constituted proof, whatever its contents. No honest man would tamper with a suicide note in such a way, nor yet keep it in the lockbox beneath his bed, amongst the sordid detritus of other poor souls’ lives.

“Oh, Nigel,” Sherlock whispered, and slipped another sheet into his wallet. “You foolish, unlucky bastard.”

“Only the captain left to find, then?” John said.

“Yes, and I cannot believe—”

An urgent knocking interrupted whatever Sherlock was about to say, and before either of them could react, the door burst open and Billy stumbled in, red-faced and panting.

“Sir! Mr. Scott, sir, he’s coming. Mr. Magnussen, he left table early, claimed a headache—” Billy bent over double, hands on his knees, but did not drop his terrified gaze from Sherlock’s face, which paled rapidly and then set in determination.

“Well done, Billy,” he said, rising and sweeping the scraps of paper from Miss Forrester’s diary back into the grate. “Now get out of here; you mustn’t be caught. Watson, the box.”

John fumbled the papers into some semblance of a stack and reached for the metal box. “Should we take the rest of these, or—”

Sherlock shook his head sharply. “Leave them. We have enough, now let’s go.” He grabbed the half-packed lockbox from the table and shoved it under the bed, where it landed with a clatter, then grabbed John’s arm and yanked him bodily from the room, barely remembering to extinguish the lamp before they left.

They paused for a moment in the passageway. Sherlock seemed to be running through escape routes in his head, and despite the urgency pounding through his veins, John was inclined to let him. For all that John was a passenger and this was his domain, he was certain that Sherlock knew the ship better.

“This way,” Sherlock hissed after a moment, grabbing John’s arm again and pulling him down the corridor toward John’s cabin.

Amazingly, they encountered no one else in their path, though John could swear he heard the thudding of footsteps behind them at every turn. His own heartbeat, no doubt. His blood sang with it, and a wild grin threatened to split his face in two. They were nearly racing each other by the time they reached his door.

John yanked the door open and they stumbled in side by side. He shut it firmly and locked it behind them, and then they both sagged against it, breathing hard and so close together that John could feel the heat of Sherlock’s arm against his. Their eyes met and something electric flared between them, settling hot and promising in John’s belly. He held Sherlock’s gaze just a moment longer and then he burst into giddy, relieved laughter. After a pause, Sherlock joined in, almost helplessly, and John worried that the joy that burst in his chest might split his ribcage in two with the force of it.

“That,” he said, between gasps of laughter, “was the most ridiculous thing I have ever done.”

Sherlock chuckled. “And you came to India.”

“Well, so did you.” He looked back up at Sherlock, at the flush of exertion staining his cheeks, at the bright genuine smile, at his strange shifting eyes crinkled in laughter.

“So I did,” Sherlock said, and something in his expression softened further, as though he’d come to a new peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual profuse and deeply earnest thanks to redscudery for the beta and to the very nice people in AD for putting up with me. Thanks also to everyone reading and commenting and subscribing—I think you are swell.
> 
> find me on tumblr at [one thousand hurrahs](http://www.onethousandhurrahs.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What shall I reveal first?” Sherlock asked, voice dropping lower still, and fingers moving to the knot of his necktie. He tugged the strip of cloth away from his throat and let it dangle from his hand. “This?”
> 
> “It’s a start,” John said and pulled the tie from his hand. He tossed it away, heedless, and then moved closer, till he could see the tiny gold freckle in the corner of Sherlock’s left iris. “Now, what’s next?”
> 
> _John and Sherlock succumb to the inevitable._

Later, John could not confidently say which of them initiated the kiss. But one moment they stood apart, the inches between them vast as the ocean, and the next the gap between them had contracted to nothing. Sherlock pressed John up against the door with one hand on his hip and another on his shoulder, and John wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s narrow waist to pull him closer yet.

Sherlock’s mouth was warm, shockingly so, and his lips parted hungrily against John’s. John let his free hand wander from Sherlock’s arm to his shoulder, and then up to cup his jaw, adjusting the angle between them and deepening the kiss. Sherlock whimpered in response, low in his throat, and the sound tore through John like a bolt of lightning. He tightened his grip on Sherlock’s waist and slipped one knee between Sherlock’s thighs, and yes, that was— that was—

A sharp knock on the door startled them both, and they stumbled away from the door in a panicked tangle of limbs.

“Under the bed,” John whispered, gesturing frantically to the dark, narrow space beneath his bunk. Sherlock scrambled to comply, while John straightened his clothing and tried to calm his breathing. In a flash of inspiration, he turned off the light, hoping he could pretend the knock had awoken him. He yawned widely just as he opened the door and came face to face with Magnussen.

“Dr. Watson,” Magnussen said, nearly purring. “I was so sorry to hear you had taken ill at dinner, and I thought someone ought to look in on you. How are you feeling?”

John blinked rapidly, and passed a hand through his hair. “I’ve been having a bit of a lie-down,” he said. “It does seem to be helping.”

“You do seem rather flushed,” Magnussen said, and John tried very hard not to think about why that might be. “Perhaps you might find it helpful to remove your jacket… and your shoes.” His eyes flicked towards John’s feet, very deliberately, and then back up.

“Yes,” John said. “Yes, I—I found myself quite dizzy when I returned to my cabin, and thought it best to lie down straightaway.”

“Naturally, naturally. Well,” Magnussen said, with a broad and disarming smile. “Now that I have reassured myself of your well-being, I suppose I ought to leave you to your rest. No doubt I shall see you in the morning, Doctor.”

John forced himself to smile in return. “I appreciate your concern,” he said. “Good night.” He shut the door and slumped against it, listening for Magnussen’s retreating steps. He slid all the way to the floor, suddenly weak-kneed, and tipped his head back against the door on a long exhale, while Sherlock crawled out from under the bed, eyes shining and dust all down his front.

John stared at him blankly for a second, on his knees in John’s cabin with the dust from under John’s bed in his hair. A slightly-hysterical giggle threatened to force its way from John’s throat.

“I may have to retract my earlier statement,” he said.

“Oh?” Sherlock asked, sitting back on his heels and raising one eyebrow.

“Indeed. Because it’s safe to say that _that_ was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.” Sherlock just smiled and brushed off the front of his shirt. John narrowed his eyes in mock-suspicion. “Why do I suspect that isn’t the first time you’ve had to take cover under someone’s bed?”

Sherlock sniffed, prim and proper even while covered in dust. “You cannot expect me to reveal _all_ my secrets, John.” (And oh, the sound of his name on that tongue! What else, John wondered, could he entice him to say?)

John tilted his chin up, challenging, and held Sherlock’s gaze. “Perhaps just some of your secrets, then?”

And of course Sherlock caught his meaning, quick as a flash. “What shall I reveal first?” he asked, voice dropping lower still, and fingers moving to the knot of his necktie. He tugged the strip of cloth away from his throat and let it dangle from his hand. “This?”

“It’s a start,” John said and pulled the tie from his hand. He tossed it away, heedless, and then moved closer, till he could see the tiny gold freckle in the corner of Sherlock’s left iris. “Now, what’s next?”

“This, I think,” Sherlock said, clambering to his feet and offering John his hand. John took it, and they stood there swaying for a moment, close but barely touching. John’s pulse throbbed beneath his skin, every inch of him focused on the man in front of him.

Then Sherlock put his hands on John’s shoulders and spun them, pushing John backwards onto the bed and following him down with a mischievous glint in his eye. John hit the mattress with a surprised huff, all the breath leaving his body at the sight of Sherlock looming over him, caging his body in. John reached up for him, eager to feel Sherlock’s weight, burning for another taste of that mouth, bright with laughter.

Sherlock hesitated just a moment. “Yes?” he asked.

“Yes,” John said emphatically, and pulled him down for another kiss.

It had been a long time since John had kissed another man—since before Jane, before India—but the peculiar pleasures of it came rushing back in heady waves. Hard thighs bracketing his hips, large hands and stubble-rough cheeks, short hair and rumbling moans: the sensations brand new and familiar all at once, and oh, he did not realize until that very moment how much he had missed them.

He canted his hips up, chasing more contact, and the hot hard press of Sherlock’s arousal greeted him as he did. He slid one hand to Sherlock’s arse and squeezed tight, encouraged by Sherlock’s breathy gasp of approval.

Then Sherlock pulled back abruptly, leaving John cold all along his front, with a frantic apology on his lips. “I’m sorry, I— I didn’t—”

Sherlock just made a face and lifted his hands to the buttons of his shirt. “Don’t be an idiot, John,” he said, his slightly shaky tones softening the harshness of the words. (And what did it say about John that “idiot,” in Sherlock’s voice, had already begun to sound like an endearment?)

“Oh,” John said, as Sherlock slid the thin linen shirt from his shoulders and tossed it to the floor. “You’re— _oh_.” His own hands faltered at his collar as he took in the smooth-as-cream planes of Sherlock’s chest, unmarred and lovely. John didn’t think he was so very much older than Sherlock, but he felt it, and he knew he looked it. Hurt and hardship had carved their marks into his skin, and chased away whatever small beauty he may have once possessed.

Sherlock cocked his head to side at John’s hesitance. “You can’t possibly be ashamed of your body,” he said, sounding more curious than accusatory. “You’re a doctor and a soldier; surely you can appreciate—”

John cut him off with a quick shake of his head. “Not ashamed, no. But not—not terribly enamored, either. It’s— That is…”

“Ah, of course, your shoulder. Scarring?”

“Quite a bit.” John still made no move to continue undressing, and his arousal, which had been burning bright for the better part of half an hour, began to fizzle. “It’s ugly,” he said, finally.

Sherlock’s expression softened, but though John searched, he found no pity in it, only that ever-present curiosity, as sharply trained on him as it always seemed to be. “I should very much like to see it,” Sherlock said, something confessional in his tone. “I find scars fascinating. I find _you—_ ” he began, then shut his mouth with a snap. “Well, at any rate, I doubt it’s the blight you believe it to be.”

John shook his head, but he felt reassured. “I don’t know why,” he said, and slipped the next button free of its hole. “But you are a bloody difficult man to refuse.”

Sherlock’s smile turned wicked and eager, and he left off unfastening his flies in favor of crawling up the bed toward John, bare shoulders flexing. “I shall endeavor not to abuse my power,” he said, and he should have sounded ridiculous—he should have _looked_ ridiculous—but instead he was mesmerizing, irresistible. John swallowed hard, and Sherlock’s smile only broadened.

Together, they contrived to strip each other of their remaining clothes, letting everything fall to the floor in a heap to be sorted later. Despite the drawn-out process of it all, John was still a little shocked to find himself utterly naked, and in the presence of an equally naked Sherlock Holmes.

If John had doubts before about his attractiveness—or at least his attractiveness to Sherlock, which was the more immediate concern—the expression of unvarnished hunger on Sherlock’s face as his eyes roamed over John put them to rest. John’s skin prickled with the force of it, until he couldn’t sit still any longer. He leaned forward, slowly closing the distance between them, unwilling to break the spell but desperate to touch.

Sherlock’s skin was warm and silk-smooth beneath his fingertips. Only a few fine curls dusted his chest, more auburn than the hair on his head, and John trailed his fingers through them, down his sternum and over his stomach. Sherlock shivered. “You’re beautiful,” John whispered, almost to himself.

Sherlock smiled, pleased and genuine. “So are you.” He fitted their mouths together and curled one hand around the back of John’s head, tipping it back with a gentle tug on John’s hair. His other hand wandered over John’s chest and stomach and shoulders, brushing occasionally over his scar, but paying it no particular attention. John relaxed slowly, letting the heat of Sherlock’s body and the lush contours of his mouth draw out his arousal gradually. The evening’s earlier urgency had receded, leaving something warm and slow and caramel-sweet in its wake. When Sherlock leaned back, pulling John down on top of him, he followed willingly, bracing his elbows on either side of Sherlock, fitting his hips into the cradle of Sherlock’s thighs. Beneath him, Sherlock sighed and arched, running his hand up the length of John’s back, then all the way back down to cup his arse. He pulled them together with a sharp tug, snapping up his hips at the same time, and sparks ignited all down John’s spine.

Slow and tender disappeared as they rocked together with increasing vigor. Their exertions in the still air of the cabin painted a fine sheen of perspiration across their skin. A single bead of sweat rolled down Sherlock’s bared throat to settle in the dip of his jugular notch, and John bent his head to taste it. Sherlock’s low helpless moan reverberated on his tongue, and John licked a stripe all the way up the column of his neck and over his Adam’s apple to deliver a quick sharp nip to the underside of his jaw.

Sherlock’s hips jerked as he gasped out John’s name, all the encouragement John needed to do the same on the opposite side. “Budge up,” Sherlock said, tugging at John until he could work a hand between them and wrap it around both their cocks.

Then it was John’s turn to gasp at the sensation as they slid together in the tight heat of Sherlock’s hand, slick with sweat and pre-ejaculate. “Christ,” he said. “Sherlock, I—”

Sherlock smiled wolfishly. “ _Yes_ ,” he said, and captured John’s mouth in the sort of messy, biting, frantic kiss that would fuel John’s private fantasies for weeks to come. John kissed him back like a man who’d been starving for months. Perhaps that’s exactly what he was. He slid his own hand down to wrap around Sherlock’s in the close humid space between their bodies. All of John’s worries, every rational thought in his head, fell silent before the quiet din of their panting breaths and bitten-off exclamations. Sherlock moved against him like the tides, liquid and elemental, and John let the inexorable rhythm sweep him away from the shore.

Sherlock reached his climax first, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth open in a wordless cry. His hips stuttered with the pulse of his seed across their joined fists. The shocking heat of it, and unearthly beauty that was Sherlock in the throes of passion, sent John hurtling toward his own release. He muffled his groans in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, teeth to pulse point, and his salt-and-lemon smell filled John’s nostrils.

Only afterward, as they lay on John’s bed still tangled together, did Sherlock really turn his attention to John’s scar. Perhaps he’d been too distracted before; perhaps he had just wanted to wait until John was pliant and sleepy. Sherlock traced one finger around the ragged edges of the scar, careful and deliberate. “Does it hurt?” he asked, tipping his head up to look at John.

“It aches, sometimes. Gets stiff if I haven’t used it enough. What you’re doing now, though—I can barely feel that. Nerve damage.”

Sherlock’s finger spiraled inward, over peaks and valleys of ruined flesh, and John shivered more at the sight of it than the sensation. Sherlock’s hand stilled, finally, over the epicenter, and he spread out his palm to cover the scar entirely.

John drifted toward sleep, soothed by the warmth of Sherlock’s hand and the steady ebb and flow of Sherlock’s breathing. He felt less tense than he had in weeks—in months, perhaps. No nightmares would plague him tonight, he was sure of it.

 

* * *

 

John didn’t know whether Sherlock slept or not. He woke up from his own catnap some time later, with Sherlock’s teasing fingers between his legs, joined shortly thereafter by Sherlock’s teasing mouth. He shivered his way to full wakefulness, twisting his hands in the sheets to keep from twisting them in Sherlock’s hair.

As though he could read John’s thoughts, Sherlock reached his free hand up to take one of John’s and guide it to rest on his head. John gasped his ineloquent appreciation to the ceiling, and Sherlock caught John’s gaze and grinned at him around his mouthful. That sight alone nearly sent John to his climax, but Sherlock seemed to sense it, and slowed down just enough to bring John back from the edge. He felt stretched between a thousand sensations, any one of them enough to bring him off, each of them clamoring for his attention. He clenched his fist so tightly that his nails bit into his palm, a sharp counterpoint to the pleasure pooling at his sacrum.

Sherlock seemed to be spinning it out as long as he could, bringing John to the precipice but not letting him tip over it, not until he was sweat-soaked and shaking, so far gone he couldn’t even form the words to beg.

When Sherlock finally let John come, it was with Sherlock’s name on his lips and Sherlock’s fingers buried deep inside him. He lay there so limp with his release that he wasn’t sure he could speak _,_ let alone lift his hand to reciprocate. Luckily Sherlock seemed poised on the edge himself, breath coming in quick shallow pants and bright spots of color on his cheeks. He knelt up just enough to take himself in hand, and brought himself off with a few quick strokes, his eyes fixed on John’s face. John couldn’t hold back the sigh that escaped his lips as Sherlock’s release painted his stomach and chest. Sherlock collapsed down beside him with a groan, boneless and sweat-damp. John reached over to smooth the hair back from Sherlock’s forehead, not quite ready to stop touching him.

“You’ve done this before,” Sherlock said, after he got his breath back.

“It’s been a long time,” John said, acquainted by now with Sherlock’s rapid conversational turns. “But yes. I’ve always liked men, too. Women are easier, though, so…”

“Safer, you mean,” Sherlock said, a little sharpness in his tone.

“I suppose,” John agreed, too wrung-out by pleasure to take umbrage. “And you?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. “Just Victor,” he said.

“I’m sorry it ended the way it did,” John said, meaning it.

Sherlock sniffed, dismissive. “Caring is not an advantage,” he said, but something about his inflection was off, slightly unnatural, as though he were reciting a proverb learned so long ago he had forgotten it was not his own thought to begin with.

John rolled onto his back, not quite stung, but not eager to push closer, either. He thought of Jane in her last weeks: the agony of watching her suffer, the knowledge of the suffering yet to come, his helplessness to stop it. _Caring is not an advantage_. No, it hadn’t been, not then.

And still. _Still_. It had kept them warm at night, hadn’t it? For all the pain and loss, they had still been given that respite, brief as it was: her shoulder pressed to his, her breath against his neck, her merry laughter in the evenings.

And now he had Sherlock beside him, drowsing and warm against his chest, and none of Sherlock’s wooden-sounding protestations could quite convince him that Sherlock had kept his heart entirely clear of the evening. The sensation of Sherlock’s palm spread over his scar like a benediction still echoed on his skin; he fell asleep warmed by the memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter summary, because if a picture's worth a thousand words, a gif is worth an entire chapter:
> 
>  
> 
> redscudery is, as always, a treasure of a beta. any remaining pronoun confusion—not to mention errors in the past perfect tense—are entirely my fault.
> 
> you can subscribe above for updates, and/or stay tuned on my tumblr: [one thousand hurrahs](http://www.onethousandhurrahs.tumblr.com/).


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Rhododendron,” Sherlock said, holding up the stalk with the pale pink flowers. “And aconite, commonly called monkshood.” He indicated the blue flowers. “It’s a warning.”
> 
> Now it was John’s turn to blink stupidly. “A warning?”
> 
> “Aconite: ‘beware, danger is near.’ Rhododendron: ‘I am dangerous.’ So, yes: a warning.”
> 
> _Strange tokens and stranger emotions haunt the morning after._

John woke late and alone the next morning. He had a vague memory of Sherlock rising sometime before sunrise and shuffling into his clothes in the dark, before sneaking back to his duty station, but John had otherwise passed a restful, dreamless night.

Despite the lateness of the hour, John was inclined to laze—not a habit he had ever really indulged in, even before the Army, but the sweet ache in his muscles and the unexpected pleasure of the sheets against his bare skin persuaded him to linger. Even the unpleasant stickiness of the morning after seemed like a novelty after so many months of abstinence compounded by ill health. He stretched his arms above his head and let loose a jaw-cracking yawn, turning this way and that to ease the slight crick in his neck.

An unexpected splash of color on the desk caught his eye, and he climbed out of bed, curiosity winning out over sloth.

His framed photograph of Jane lay face up in the exact center of his desk, overlaid with two sprigs of dried and pressed flowers, crossed over the portrait like an X. The larger of the two had pale pink fluted petals, arrayed like a fan over dusky almond-shaped leaves. The other was longer and slimmer, with vivid cobalt flowers and broad, deeply-toothed leaves. He picked it up, intrigued, and twirled the stem between his fingers.

Had the flowers been there when they’d stumbled into the room last night? He couldn’t begin to recall. They didn’t seem like the sort of token Sherlock might leave behind, not that Sherlock seemed the token-leaving sort to begin with. John had been too distracted—they’d _both_ been too distracted—by the events unfolding between them, and by Magnussen’s brief, strange visit in the midst of it all.

 _Magnussen_.

John’s stomach dropped as the implications of the previous evening came back to him. Magnussen would have known his room had been searched as soon as he entered, John was certain. They’d put it to rights as best they could, but there simply hadn’t been enough time to arrange it exactly as they’d found it. (And Sherlock _could_ have arranged it exactly as they’d found it, down to the last crumpled paper in the grate—John would stake anything on that.) He couldn’t begin to guess whether Magnussen would know immediately what they’d taken, or whether they were the ones who had broken in, but the man was intelligent enough to worry him. And why else would he have wanted to verify that John had truly returned to his cabin after his early departure from the dining room? John swallowed hard, and let the flower drop.

He washed and dressed mechanically, then picked his discarded clothes from the night before and shook them out, mind racing all the while. He thought he ought to feel guilty about bedding Sherlock, or at least conflicted, but he could summon up nothing but joy over the whole affair. Perhaps it would fizzle out like wet gunpowder before the end of the voyage, but it had been so long, _so long_ since he’d been with anyone in such a way. And Sherlock’s attractions went far beyond his physical beauty. When Sherlock looked at John he saw _John_ , whole and entire, and sought out his company anyway. John had no need for disguises or pretense when Sherlock was sprawled in his chair, mouth curling around a smile, but he hadn’t realized until Sherlock how much of a disguise he normally donned. What an unexpected relief, then, to let it fall from his shoulders like a heavy cloak.

God help Magnussen if he thought he could steal that from them.

 

* * *

 

 

John finally arrived in the dining room at the tail end of the breakfast hour, when most of the passengers (including, blessedly, Magnussen) had already eaten and gone. He ate his cold toast and drank his tea without really tasting any of it, and pondered how best to get a message to Sherlock. Sherlock’s point about minimizing their public interactions was a sound one, especially now that they were hiding a real affair, and not merely the appearance of one. Still, John hated to simply wait around helplessly, like a woman being courted, until Sherlock deigned to call on him.

As if he’d been summoned by the power of John’s thoughts, Billy Wiggins popped up at his elbow, freckled and sunburned and sketching an awkward, deferential sort of salute.

“Thank you for your aid last night, Wiggins,” John said in a low voice. “Impeccable timing, as always.”

Wiggins nodded gravely, his attempt at nonchalance rather spoiled by his pleased blush. “Always happy to help, Doctor.”

“Well, may I ask one more favor?” John asked, suppressing a smile at the way the boy immediately pulled himself to attention, narrow chest swelling. “I need to get a message to Sh—to Mr. Scott. I need to speak to him today, in person. Can you help me arrange that?”

“Course I can, sir.” He shifted from one foot to the other, clearly eager to be on his way. “He’s on watch now, but I ‘spect he’ll be free by noon. I’ll let him know.”

John smiled. Even having to use an emissary irritated him—so much useless waiting!—but Wiggins’s enthusiasm, and the obvious pride he took in being so trusted, endeared him to John nonetheless. “Thank you, Wiggins. If there is ever anything I can do for you in return, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Wiggins nodded, and made another quick salute. “Thank you, sir.” He turned to go, then hesitated, swaying on his feet with indecision for a moment. “If I may, sir, I’m most happy to see Mr. Scott with a friend such as you. He looked awful grave before, when he thought no one was looking. But he’s—he’s brightened up a bit now, if you know what I mean.”

“I am glad to be his friend,” John said, heart thudding dangerously in his chest. “I feel as though I’ve brightened up a bit myself, and I did not expect that on this journey.”

It could just be the case, John reminded himself, as Wiggins hurried away. Sherlock had evidence now, and a mission. It could be that he was happy to escape India, to be London-bound again. It could be the weather, for all John knew. It might not be him at all, whatever Wiggins thought—whatever John himself hoped. Caring, after all, was not an advantage. And surely it was worrying, that Sherlock could utter those words in that tone so soon after shattering apart in John’s arms and dozing against his shoulder?

Still, all the pessimistic meditations in the world could not quite extinguish the glowing, hopeful ember that warmed his chest.

He finished the last of his toast and made his way out to the decks, thinking to pass the time with a long walk before the oppressive heat of the day made the promenade too unpleasant. To his surprise, he found Miss Morstan outside as well, standing by the rail and watching the churning wake stretch out behind them. She barely turned as John approached, with only a slight easing of her stiff shoulders to betray that she heard him at all.

“I know it’s foolish to ask how you are,” John said, moving to stand at the rail next to her.

“I am alive,” she said. “It takes me by surprise every morning.”

“Yes,” John said, thinking of Jane, and of his injury and his discharge.

“It should not be possible to hurt so badly, and still live.” She kept her eyes fixed on the water.

John steeled himself, dreading the answer even as he asked the question. “Do you—are you tempted to—”

She shook her head, regretful. “I want to,” she said. “Terribly. But she would not forgive me. And despite everything, it seems I still cannot bear to disappoint her.” The already-tense line of her jaw tightened further. “I wish I could. She did, after all.”

“But not willingly, I think,” John said.

She looked at him sharply. “What do you mean? Have you found something out?”

John glanced around quickly, but could see no one within earshot. “Sherlock and I searched Magnussen’s room last night,” he said in an undertone. “We found the remains of Margaret’s missing diary pages in his fireplace grate. And the first half of her—note, in his lock box.”

Miss Morstan went absolutely still. “May I see it,” she said, in a strained voice, not quite managing to make it a question.

John nodded. “Sherlock has it now. And I haven’t read it, myself. But I will ensure it comes to you, in the end. It should be yours.” He hesitated, then forged on. “She addressed it to you.”

Miss Morstan squeezed her eyes shut. “Damn you, Margaret,” she whispered, in the barest undertone.

“I am sorry,” John said helplessly. “Which is a terrible, useless thing to say, I know.”

Miss Morstan shook her head. “No,” she said, unconvincingly. “It’s…” Her voice drifted off and she shrugged.

“When my wife died,” John said. “When Jane— Well, everyone said they were sorry. Over and over. I think it’s all I heard, those first few days. But it doesn’t help anything. There’s nothing for anyone to be sorry _for;_ no one is at fault, it’s just--”

“Something to say,” Miss Morstan agreed quietly. “Yes, that’s true. But you mean it kindly. And you knew her and you—you loved her too.”

John nodded, and looked out at the horizon. Mary didn’t need the weight of his gaze on top of everything else she had to carry. “Miss Forrester—Margaret—was easy to love.”

Miss Morstan’s lips pressed together in a thin line, nearly disguising the tiny tremor in her chin. “Yes,” she said, tightly.

“I’ll leave you alone, for now,” John said. “But I’ll tell you what we find. And you will have those notes, I promise.”

She nodded, but made no other response. John slipped away quietly, and a parting glance over his shoulder showed her still standing ramrod-straight, staring sightlessly at the hard blue sky. But for the gentle ripple of the wind in her heavy gray skirts, she might have been a statue.

Not knowing what else to do, and not inclined to socialize after his conversation with Miss Morstan, John returned to his own room. The strange sprigs of dried flowers still lay on his desk where he’d dropped them, but he blew the dust from the portrait of Jane and returned it to its proper place. He turned slowly where he stood, taking in the tiny room. Objectively, it looked no different than it had the morning before, and yet everywhere he looked, he saw the invisible evidence of Sherlock’s presence. The spot against the door where they kissed first, the space beneath the bed where Sherlock had hastily hidden and emerged with dust limning his curls and a wicked spark in his eye.

Eventually, John sank down onto the bed, although he was not tired. He buried his face in the pillow and inhaled deeply. It made him feel a little foolish, like the heroine of a sentimental novel, but he fancied that Sherlock’s scent still lingered in the fabric. He relaxed by degrees, letting the difficulties of his conversation with Miss Morstan and his worry about discovery by Magnussen seep out of him slowly. Neither loss nor danger were foreign to him, after all, though he had not thought to find them here. He had not thought to find them at all, really, once his life in India had been so unceremoniously ripped away from him.

He had not thought to find such a friend as Sherlock, either, nor such happiness, however fleeting. He had expected nothing more than a long straight road, rolling out flat and featureless before him, suits and house calls and respectability, one foot in front of the other for as long as he could stand it.

A quick tap on the door roused him from his meditations. He was not surprised to find Wiggins waiting on the other side of the door, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Mr. Scott says to meet him in the aft storage room at two bells. That means one o’clock,” he added, as though he were letting John in on a great secret. John bit back another smile.

“Thank you, Wiggins. I can see why Mr. Scott puts such trust in you.” He clapped the boy on the shoulder and watched him hurry off down the hall, then pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. Eleven-thirty. Enough time for a brief luncheon then, the possibility of a run-in with Magnussen be damned. His scant tea-and-toast breakfast had not really satisfied, and he was bound to encounter the man again eventually. Far less suspicious, really, than seeming to deliberately avoid him.

He combed back his pillow-rumpled hair and straightened his tie, checking his reflection in the mirror. He’d discovered several love bites left by Sherlock last night, but luckily they all fell below the line of his collar.

The dining room was better populated than it had been that morning. Perhaps John hadn’t been the only one sleeping off a late night; from what he understood, the festivities the previous evening had stretched well into the small hours of the morning. No one glanced up as he entered, and he took a seat near the door, at a table with a few other people he barely knew. He wondered, briefly, if he should have been more assiduous in socializing at the journey’s beginning; it felt strange to do so now, when it seemed that all of the social circles had already coalesced.

Still, one couple, traveling home to Edinburgh for their son’s wedding, seemed happy enough to include John in their conversation. More talk of the weather, naturally, the refuge of polite strangers everywhere, although Mr. and Mrs. Childe seemed less enamored of it than Miss Forrester had been. The heat, the sun, the unmoving air, and the smell of the sea—none could quite compare to the welcoming climes of Edinburgh. (John wondered, but did not ask, whether they were from a different Edinburgh than the one he knew; they spoke of it as though it were Eden reincarnate, and not the damp, heathery highland maze he had visited.)

Soon enough, however, the conversation meandered into the realm of shipboard gossip, and John perked up a bit, suddenly much more interested.

“I heard,” Mrs. Childe said, leaning forward with her eyes wide, “that someone’s cabin was broken into last night!”

“Good Lord,” Mr. Childe replied. “Whose? Was anything taken?”

“A Mr. Charles Magnussen,” she said. “I’ve not met him, but the Gaskells dined at his table a few nights ago. Maria declared him quite unsettling, though she couldn’t put her finger on why.”

“He is a difficult man to describe,” John said, as mildly as he was able. “We’ve spoken a few times, but I have never been entirely sure what to make of him myself.”

“Never mind that—was anything _taken_?” Mr. Childe said, irritated. “And when did this happen? Surely there will be an investigation?”

Mrs. Childe shrugged, apparently not as concerned as her husband. “I’m sure the captain will deal with all of it ably, dear,” she said. “As for the timing, Maria said it happened last night, during the fete.”

“Awfully sneaky of them,” Mr. Childe grumbled.

“How alarming,” John agreed, and hoped he looked appropriately shocked.

“And his room was only rifled through, if the reports are to be believed,” Mrs. Childe said.

“Nevertheless,” Mr. Childe said, frowning at his chicken. “A stranger—perhaps even one of the crew!—pawing about through my things, for God knows what ends. It’s an appalling breach.”

John sipped his lemonade. “I haven’t heard much of the captain, now that you mention it. Have either of you had the chance to speak to him?”

“He does seem to be a retiring sort,” Mrs. Childe said. “But he was at the do last night, for quite awhile. Did you not see him?”

“Ah, no,” John said. “I had to retire early; I was feeling quite ill. I am sorry to have missed it.”

“I have not heard any complaints about the captain, at any rate,” Mr. Childe said. “He seems to run a competent enough ship. Although if this break-in is not resolved satisfactorily, I may have to revise that opinion.” His scowl only intensified as Mrs. Childe patted his arm soothingly.

“I’m sure it will be resolved,” John said, pushing his plate away and smiling amiably. “And thank you for the company; it’s been a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

They smiled and nodded as he rose and made his way out in the hallway. He had a few more minutes until he had to meet Sherlock, but he wanted to stop by his cabin first to pick up the dried flowers. Perhaps Sherlock might be able to offer some insight. A few days’ practice had made John more confident about sneaking through the less-frequented areas of the ship, but he still felt a rush of relief when he made it to their meeting point without incident.

Sherlock was already waiting for him, gazing out the porthole with his hands clasped at the small of his back. John allowed himself a brief moment to appreciate the long lines of Sherlock’s body, the strong sweep of his shoulders and back, and the unexpectedly lush curve of his arse. Sherlock turned to catch him staring, and though John blushed, he didn’t look away.

“Hello,” he said, and let the smile spread over his face. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“We don’t have time for foolishness, John,” Sherlock said, but the pink stain at the tips of his ears gave him away.

“Of course,” John said, still smiling. He wanted nothing more than to pull Sherlock close and press a kiss to his frowning mouth, but he could tell that wouldn’t be welcome. No matter; as Sherlock pointed out, they had work to do. “This will sound odd,” he said. “But did you… leave anything in my room last night, by chance?”

Sherlock’s frown deepened. “No, why?”

John slipped the flower stalks out of his wallet and held them out. “I found these,” he said. “Laid out on top of my portrait of Jane, crossed like an X. You didn’t leave them?”

Sherlock blinked. “Why would I leave you flowers? No, never mind, just give them over.” He thrust out his hand impatiently.

“I admit, I’m not much of a horticulturist,” John said, as Sherlock inspected the stems. “I haven’t a clue what those are.”

“Rhododendron,” Sherlock said, holding up the stalk with the pale pink flowers. “And aconite, commonly called monkshood.” He indicated the blue flowers. “It’s a warning.”

Now it was John’s turn to blink stupidly. “A warning?”

“Aconite: ‘beware, danger is near.’ Rhododendron: ‘I am dangerous.’ So, yes: a warning.”

John grinned in spite of himself. “Wait, this is a flower code? You don’t know that the earth revolves around the sun, but you know _flower language_?” Oh, this was rich.

Sherlock scowled darkly. “Heliocentrism has never solved a crime. Flower language, however… has proved surprisingly useful.” He sounded distressed by the fact.

John brought his face back under control. As hilarious as it was to imagine Sherlock contemplating the nuances of orange versus yellow lilies, the situation was clearly serious. And someone had been in his room. “Magnussen, do you think?”

“Better not to theorize without facts,” Sherlock said.

“Who else could it be?” John said. “I’ve made no other enemies on this ship, to my knowledge, and he’s bound to be feeling threatened himself, at the the moment.”

“He does seem the most likely culprit,” Sherlock conceded. “I didn’t find any plant material when I searched his room last night, but admittedly I wasn’t looking for it. And we were forced to cut the operation short.”

“It was there when I woke up this morning,” John said. “That’s why—ah, that’s why I wondered if you might have left it. I don’t think anyone could have come in while we were there…”

“Which means it must have been there when we got back to your cabin last night,” Sherlock finished. “Ugh. I don’t know how I could have missed a detail like that.”

“We were a bit distracted,” John offered.

“That’s no bloody excuse!” Sherlock said, tangling both hands in his hair and tugging. “I can’t be _distracted_ while I’m working, I can’t—” He broke off with another wordless exclamation of disgust, whirling around to pace the small room. “This is untenable,” he finally said, in a slightly more controlled voice.

“If you’re asking me to apologize for last night,” John said evenly, “I don’t think I can. But—”

“I do not want to talk about ‘last night,’” Sherlock said, parroting the last two words back at John with mockery in his voice. “I want to _do my work_.”

John nodded once and squared his shoulders, shoving his confusion and hurt aside for the moment. He had been a soldier, after all; he did that well. “All right,” he said. “How can I help?”

Sherlock’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve done some digging of my own, and confirmed what I’d feared: the captain is in Magnussen’s pocket. I had hoped—I had hoped when I gathered all my evidence, that I could persuade the captain to imprison Magnussen until we reached land, and could turn him over to the authorities. I have the evidence for it this time; I could make it stick.”

“What does Magnussen have on the captain?” John asked.

“Opium,” Sherlock said shortly. “At the very least. Apparently there is a rather significant quantity of it on this ship, and most of it will not be noted on the bill of lading.”

“Ah.”

“Quite.” Sherlock flexed his fingers by his thigh. “I would rather not have known about the opium,” he said softly, and looked away. “So there’s one avenue closed, the avenue I had hoped for.”

“I thought you said he couldn’t be dealt with through official channels,” John said, recalling their first conversation on the subject, in the hold. Only days ago, but it seemed like months.

“I didn’t think it likely,” Sherlock said. “But I did hope. I don’t have much respect for vigilantism, as a rule. I’d prefer not to stoop to it myself.”

“You think he needs to be killed,” John said. “And you’re not sure you can do it.”

Sherlock’s eyes flared. “I know I can do it. If there’s one thing that my anatomical studies have taught me, it’s that men are very fragile creatures, in the end.”

“Not always,” John murmured, rolling his bad shoulder, and marveling, once again, that he had managed to leave that steaming Delhi street with any blood at all left in his body.

Sherlock ignored him. “If I—if he dies, the captain will be free of his power. And I will still have the evidence I have now, to…defend myself. I could survive it.”

“There must be a better way,” John said, suddenly feeling very strongly that Sherlock should not kill Magnussen. Not for Magnussen’s sake—no, he was a parasite and a pestilence—but for Sherlock’s. He thought of Sherlock’s strong lovely hands, and thought of them stained with blood, as his own hands were, and it made him strangely ill. He could not imagine Sherlock would be much flattered by John’s sudden impulse to shield him, but—

The bells rang out across the ship, and Sherlock startled out of whatever reverie he had fallen into. “That’s my watch,” he said. “I have to go.” He made to shoulder past John, but John reached out and grabbed his arm. Sherlock froze.

“Just—don’t do anything rash,” John said. “Please. Whatever you need to do, I’ll help you, but don’t do it in haste.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted, and he looked as though he were about to say something. In the end, though, he just nodded jerkily, and pulled his arm free of John’s grip. “I will be in touch,” he said, and walked out the door.

John stared at the door, momentarily adrift. There had to be a better way. Perhaps Sherlock saw the situation more clearly than he did; John would be the first to admit that he was no genius. But Sherlock surely had his own blind spots, and John would do whatever it took to keep him safe.

He followed Sherlock out the door with a renewed sense of mission.

John stubbornly refused to let worry or even sadness affect him as he strode back towards his cabin. He couldn’t deny that Sherlock’s dismissal of their time together as a mere “distraction” stung, but… he couldn’t claim that Sherlock was entirely wrong, either. They had been distracted, and he could only hope that it would not prove fatal to their mission. They should have noticed the flowers on John’s desk; they should have paused to look at their bloody evidence instead of kissing each other senseless against the door. In hindsight, their mistakes were glaring.

Still, John could not bring himself to regret it. Not really. The timing of it, perhaps, and the context, but not—not the act. Not the essence of what they’d done. Even if Sherlock never touched him again, even if he refused to look John in the face, it would hurt like another bullet to the shoulder, but it would be worth it.

Still, Sherlock was right: they had other priorities now. They had less than a week until they dropped anchor in Aden for coaling, before proceeding up the Red Sea toward the Suez Canal and Port Said. Whatever else happened, Magnussen _must_ be secured by the time they reached Aden. It wasn’t the most hospitable port, and didn’t cater particularly to wealthy Englishmen, but it would still be Magnussen’s first, best chance to escape, or to consolidate his resources. They could not let that happen; what power they had existed only so long as they remained safely at sea, away from Magussen’s money and influence.

The captain threw a kink in the line, however. So far he seemed to be keeping himself detached from the situation, but all the democratic advances in the world could not affect the absolute power of a captain on his ship. If what Sherlock said was true, then Magnussen had a powerful ally, and one he could easily induce to neutralize the threats against him.

So: they had to reach the captain first. Sway him, somehow, to pick justice over self-preservation, or—perhaps more realistically—find a more powerful motivator than fear of Magnussen.

John did not really fancy their odds. It was no wonder Sherlock was tempted to simply shoot the man and be done with it. (Did Sherlock have a gun, John wondered. Well, it probably didn’t matter; no doubt there were any number of them on the ship that Sherlock could abscond with at a moment’s notice. John himself had one, should it come to that.)

John arrived back at his cabin, and sat down heavily at his desk. Out of habit, he reached for his journal and pen, then stopped himself. Seeing that sheaf of other people’s personal papers in Magnussen’s lock box had unsettled him. Nothing seemed as private anymore. (Was he any better, though? After all, he’d helped himself to the contents of Magnussen’s trunk with barely a second thought and flipped through his commonplace book without a single twinge of his conscience. _Different_ , John assured himself. _Justified_. God, he hoped it was.)

He could fictionalize it, perhaps. Change some names, shift the setting. It wouldn’t work. Magnussen was smarter than that; to assume otherwise would be deadly. Better to set the journal aside for now, and return to it in safer times.

He scrubbed his hands through his hair, wishing he could think more clearly. What would Sherlock be doing, if he weren’t on his watch? Or perhaps better yet, what could John, as a passenger, achieve that Sherlock-as-Mr.-Scott could not? He could not hope to replicate Sherlock’s genius, but perhaps he could augment it.

Mr. Childe’s words at lunch came back to him in a revelatory flash—the captain, he’d said, sometimes appeared in the passenger parlor after dinner, to share a drink or perhaps a pipe with some of the other men. John himself had tended to avoid those gatherings, finding the sociability grating and the card table rather too tempting. Clearly, however, the time had come to change his habits.

He dressed carefully for dinner, combing his hair back carefully, adjusting his necktie to perfection. He needed to look respectable, trustworthy, honest—he needed, in short, to look like a safer bet than Magnussen. He didn’t have much of a plan, really, beyond “pray the captain was in the parlor and disposed to friendly chat,” but he hoped he could improvise.

He sat with the Childes and a few of their friends through dinner, Miss Morstan being absent once again. Wiggins had assured him that she was eating a little, but took most meals in her cabin. He couldn’t blame her. Public grief was a strange and awkward beast, and the sight of Magnussen, chatting and laughing and flaunting his freedom, burned like acid. John only wished it were proper for him to join her there, so she would not have to be entirely alone.

When supper was finished, he followed the other men into the parlor, lighting his pipe with the rest of them and attempting to look as though he fit in. He made awkward small talk with strangers, fending off questions about his service and his injury, and attempting to sound optimistic about his future, all the while keeping half an eye on the door. The evening wore on, with no sign of the captain, and John was about to make his excuses and escape to his room when Magnussen appeared at his elbow, smiling in his dead-eyed way.

“Ah, Doctor Watson!” he exclaimed, with a false jolliness that set John’s teeth on edge. “Just the man I have been looking for. Might I have a word?” He did not wait for an answer, but nodded to John’s companions and led him to the corner with a near-painful grip on his elbow.

“I’m glad to see you’ve been making friends on this journey,” Magnussen said without preamble. His smile remained fixed on his face, but growing ever colder and more threatening. A poisonous snake—yes, that was it precisely.

“Certainly,” John said. “I am surrounded by pleasant company; how could I not?”

“Ah, but you strike me as the sort of man who prefers one or two very _close_ friends to a crowd of pleasant acquaintances.”

John frowned, not entirely certain where Magnussen was heading with this, but sure it was nowhere good. “Well, perhaps,” he said. “I admit, I have never felt entirely myself in a room full of people. Still, I would hardly consider myself a hermit.”

“Of course not,” Magnussen agreed, and his smile sharpened into something very shark-like indeed. “There is nothing quite like an intimate friend.” He placed a subtle emphasis on those last two words, and something in his intonation sent a shiver down John’s spine. He could not possibly know—could he? His choice of words was unsettlingly close to the mark to be accidental.

John pasted a bland smile onto his face, doing his best to look innocently unaware of Magnussen’s possible implications.

“I would be careful, if I were you,” Magnussen continued, in a somewhat lighter tone. “Friends are a gift indeed, but some people are all too eager to see an…unnatural bond, and to use it to their benefit.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” John said, trying to keep his fist from clenching at his side.

Magnussen cocked his head to the side. “Don’t you?” He gave John a long, steady once-over. “You should consider growing a mustache, Doctor Watson. It might do you some favors.” He gave John one more unsettling smile, and walked away.

John lifted his hand to his upper lip, lightly touching the bare skin there as he pondered Magnussen’s strange parting remark. He was fairly certain a mustache _wouldn’t_ do him any favors, but surely Magnussen wasn’t talking about his physical appearance.

He still saw no sign of the captain, and discomfited as he was by his conversation with Magnussen, he decided to stage a strategic retreat. He would have another opportunity tomorrow, and perhaps in the meantime he could solidify his plan of attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, we're back to plot. I enjoyed last week's smutty detour; I hope you did too.
> 
> The same notes as always, really: redscudery (now with added doctorate!) is a treasure of a beta. My [tumblr](http://www.onethousandhurrahs.tumblr.com/) is not entirely consumed by Check, Please! even if my brain _is_ this week. And we've got just three chapters and an epilogue left to go!
> 
> Some bonus links: dried, pressed [monkshood](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/79/45/06/794506b906d7671339734cfb5c3a91a1.jpg/) and [rhododendron](http://www.ibiblio.org/botnet/flora/images/Rhododendron_catawbiense002.jpg/). (Most species of rhododendron won't kill you. Most species of aconite will. Botany is fun!) Also [here's a list of Victorian flower meanings](http://www.victorianbazaar.com/meanings.html), the authenticity of which I cannot speak to, but which I referenced anyway.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I did warn you,” Magnussen said quietly, almost conversationally. “Twice, in fact. You may consider this your third warning—more than sporting, I should say.” He paused, but didn’t seem to expect an answer. John waited. “I can ruin you,” Magnussen finally continued, in that same even, casual tone. “You have family? I can destroy them. Friends? I can drag them through the muck. I can make your name poison on everyone’s lips, should I wish it. Keep that in mind, if you are ever tempted to cross me again.”
> 
>  
> 
> _In which John confronts the captain, and discovers someone has done it first._

John couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when he finally reached the door of his cabin. The day had been exhausting and strange, and he wanted nothing more than to kick off his shoes, shed his cravat, and collapse into bed. He was unsettled to find the door already unlocked—for all the earlier distractions, he was sure he had not left without locking it behind him.

He fumbled for the lantern, but it wasn’t where he’d left it. Strange. He pushed the door open further, to let the light from the hallway in, then gasped aloud as it illuminated his cabin.

The room had been utterly ransacked: his trunk was upended on the floor, its contents strewn everywhere. The sheets had been ripped from the bed and his clothes lay in a heap on the floor. His chair lay on its side, atop a pile of ripped and crumpled papers—his journal, John realized with a start. The lantern had been shattered against one wall, and the lamp oil dripped slowly to the floor, where it made slick puddles over shards of glass.

John took a deep breath and stepped back out into the hall, pulling the door shut behind him. One step at a time. A new lamp, to begin with. No doubt one of the cabin boys could help with that. A broom and a rag for the broken glass and the oil. After that, everything else would be easy enough. Years of experience had taught him that nothing could tame his fears like keeping his hands busy. Still, his skin crawled with the knowledge that someone had invaded his cabin, rooting among his papers and through his clothes.

Billy Wiggins wasn’t on duty, but the cabin boy John finally found was assiduous enough, if somewhat lacking Billy’s round-faced enthusiasm. He didn’t dare ask him to send a message to Sherlock, however. After this, and Magnussen’s insinuations, not to mention Sherlock’s suspicion that the captain was corrupt, John didn’t dare draw anyone else into this mess.

The cabin boy scrunched up his face as he wiped up the last of the lamp oil and dropped the rag into his bucket. “Should I call the captain for you, sir?” he asked, looking very much as though he hoped John would say no.

John shook his head. “That’s all right. It’s late, and I’d rather not disturb him. I’m sorry enough I had to disturb you. I can speak to him in the morning.”

The boy looked relieved. “All right, sir. Is there anything else?”

“No, I think that will be all. You’ve been a great help. I appreciate it.”

The boy nodded quickly and hurried away, leaving John standing alone in his wreck of a room. Except for the journal and the lamp, nothing had actually been destroyed. His clothes were rumpled and his sheets dusty from being dragged across the floor, but John could live with that. He knelt to pull his pillow from where it had been kicked beneath the bed, and as he straightened, something caught his eye. Another spring of dried aconite, carefully placed just where his pillow should be. He snatched it up, suddenly burning with useless rage, and crushed it in his fist, letting the dried petals and leaves crumble and fall to the floor. He stared at the fallen pieces for a moment, then scuffed his boot over the tiny pile, grinding it into the floorboards. He remade the bed slowly, shoulder aching, and draped his clothes over the back of his chair.

He wasn’t surprised when sleep eluded him. He lay awake for what seemed like hours, staring into the dark and listening to the creaks and groans of the ship at night. He finally fell asleep sometime before dawn, but he was restless and haunted by unsettling dreams.

 

* * *

  


To his disappointment, John did not see Captain Stewart at dinner the next night, either, nor did he hear a word from Sherlock. Even Billy Wiggins proved surprisingly elusive for a boy whose greatest gift seemed to be appearing in the just the right place at just the right time. John spotted him only once, disappearing around a corner, and by the time John caught up, Billy was gone. He wanted to tell Sherlock about the destruction of his room—surely ordered by Magnussen, if not executed by him. He wanted to see what Sherlock thought they could accomplish before they dropped anchor in Aden, mere days away.

He wanted, if it came to that, to offer Sherlock his gun and his hand to wield it. John’s hands, after all, were already stained beyond cleaning. He didn’t want to add another soul to his tally, but if needs must—well, better John than Sherlock, surely.

Still, as the days rolled by with no sign or word from Sherlock, John grew worried, particularly given the way they’d parted. It was clear their relationship, or whatever it was, had spooked Sherlock; he had drawn up his defenses before John’s very eyes. Still, surely they could remain allies?

But not if Sherlock simply avoided him, which would be easy for him to do, as a crew member on a ship this size. Most of the ship was his domain, really—John and the other passengers had the promenade decks and the dining hall, the passenger parlor and their cabins, but the hold and engine rooms, the crew’s mess and their quarters, and whatever other spaces lurked labyrinthine below the decks—those were the crew’s domain, and John couldn’t begin to navigate them.

Nevertheless, he was determined to try. It had been two and a half days since he’d last seen Sherlock, and he thought he might go mad with frustration and boredom and curiosity—and damn it all, he just missed the bloody sight of the man. In the scant time that they’d known each other, John had already grown accustomed to his strange, meandering, prickly conversation, his habit of showing up in John’s cabin at any hour of the day or night and installing himself in John’s chair, or at the end of his bed.

That settled it. Sherlock was somewhere on this ship, and John would find him. There couldn’t really be rules against that, could there, beyond the usual puffery about “class” and “the done thing”? And even if there were, well—John didn’t particularly care anymore. One or two scandalized passengers or an alarmed cabin boy paled in comparison to Miss Forrester’s bright laugh, now silenced, and Miss Morstan’s slim shoulders tensed with grief.

He straightened his waistcoat, settled his hat, and moved off with an air of confidence he didn’t feel. He didn’t, after all, have a single earthly idea where he was going. Working through the schedule in his head, he was fairly sure that Sherlock wasn’t on watch at the moment. So, the crew mess or the crew quarters seemed the likeliest place to begin. And those places were always easy to find—just follow the noise.

Still, he wouldn’t mind a map. The passenger areas seemed to be aft, and on the upper decks, so to find the crew—down and forward? He walked briskly, looking neither right nor left, and was pleased to see that no one paid him any mind. Sherlock’s advice drifted back to him. “ _The secret is to walk as if you’re meant to be here. Skulking stands out, but no one pays any attention to a confident man._ ” This area of the ship seemed strangely deserted—few passengers and no crew members at all. He passed cabin after cabin, the doors pressed close together, before he realized—these must be the third-class cabins. “Steerage,” perhaps, though that word had always left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. He’d expected more occupants, more noise. Well, perhaps there wasn’t much profit shuffling the poor between Bombay and London. Not many of the lower classes looking to start a new life in either place—far too expensive, in London, and not much of an escape, in Bombay.

John continued, descending another set of stairs. This passage looked more promising. Duller paint, more signs of wear, and posted notices aimed at seamen: “Gambling strictly forbidden!” and “Is your uniform complete?” This area appeared to be storage, rather than an active living or working space, but it seemed like progress. John pressed on, looking especially for a schedule of watches or mealtimes, a list of assigned bunk spaces, anything to help him narrow down where Sherlock might be. The noise—of both engines and human habitation—increased along with the heat as John followed the corridor around several turns.

A cabin boy careened around a corner, nearly crashing into John before pulling himself up short. He gawped at John, clearly confused, before he realized that John was a passenger—however out of bounds—and pulled himself together.

“Sorry sir, ‘scuse me, but this bit of the ship is—”

“For crew only, I know,” John said. “I’m trying to find a particular member of the crew, however—can you possibly point me to him?”

The boy’s frown deepened—clearly he was trying to decide whether John’s request was something he was allowed to accommodate.

“I wouldn’t ask, normally,” John continued. “But it’s a matter of some importance. I’m looking for William—Bill—Scott. Do you know him? Is he off at the moment?”

The boy screwed up his face and nodded, having evidently come to a decision. “I know him, sir. He’ll be in the mess now, I think. I really oughtn’t take you there, but maybe you could wait here? And I can run and fetch him for you?”

“That’ll do perfectly,” John said, smiling at the nervous youth. “I don’t want to make things difficult for you.”

“Maybe—could you, er, wait in here?” The boy opened the door next to him, all but shooing John into the space beyond.

“Of course,” John said, and then the boy was off down the hall. John shut the door behind himself and looked around. The room was larger than it had initially appeared, but the crates and boxes piled high along the walls gave it a closed-in air. It was, blessedly, equipped with a porthole, which let in enough light to see by. John paced as he waited for the boy to return with Sherlock, and wondered if he ought to be preparing a speech. Just how much of a fight was he in for, really?

The door creaked open not long after, and Sherlock poked his head in. “Ah,” he said, tone and expression indecipherable.

“I’d apologize for pulling you away from a meal,” John said, turning away from the porthole. “Except that I’d wager you weren’t actually eating.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched, and he looked at the floor. “Nevertheless. You did interrupt me. Why?”

Frustration flared in John. “You’re really asking that?” he said. “We’ve been working together—rather well, I might add—on this business for the better part of a week, and then you disappear entirely right before what can only be the vital moment. Why do you _think_ I’ve come to find you?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, expression blank again. “If you’ve come to offer assistance, I can assure you that I have the matter well in hand. If you’ve come to offer…anything else, I can assure you that—that I won’t be in need of such distractions again.” He stumbled a little over his words, but there was no mistaking his meaning.

John sighed. “Sherlock, I am sorry that I—that we missed that evidence, before. I’m willing to repent of our timing, at least. But not of everything else. Are you really asking for that?”

Sherlock straightened incrementally. “I am asking,” he said, in slow and glacial tones, “for you to go back to your cabin. Socialize with the other passengers. Play whist or charades or whatever idiotic bloody parlor game is in vogue at the moment. Go to London, set up your practice, find a nice widow and have half a dozen children. But do not _—_ do not—think that it will make one iota of difference to me. I have my work; everything else is irrelevant.”

“Rehearsed that one for awhile, did you?” John said. “Practiced in the mirror, tried it out on the other sailors? Well, you should have rehearsed it longer, because it’s a load of shit, and I can tell.”

“I’ve nothing further to say,” Sherlock said, turning toward the door. “I mean every word; it’s not my problem if you refuse to believe it.”

John moved in front of him, physically blocking the door. “Of course you mean it,” he said. “But it’s still a load of shit.”

Sherlock looked tempted to simply push John aside, and oh, how John wanted him to try. A good dust-up would be just the thing. John burned with the need to put his hands on Sherlock, and just now he didn’t much care whether it was in anger or affection. He clenched and unclenched his fist, and waited for Sherlock to make a move.

To John’s disappointment, Sherlock relaxed very slightly, though he did not step back. They stood nearly chest-to-chest, and John could not help but think of the last time they had been so close. Pounding hearts, and the color high on their cheeks, teetering on the edge of something magnificent. John’s heart twisted in his ribs.

“I can help you,” he said, “if you’ll just let me.” God, Sherlock wouldn’t even meet his eyes.

“I tried that,” Sherlock said. “It never works, in the end.” He lifted his eyes to John’s, very briefly, before flicking his gaze back to some indeterminate point over his shoulder. “Please, John. Just let me by.”

This time, John stepped aside to let him pass. Sherlock slid by without another word, careful not to let even his sleeve brush John’s shoulder as he went.

John lingered in the storeroom for some time after Sherlock had left, staring out the porthole and watching the sunlight spark off the rippling navy sea. Three more days till Aden, and he wasn’t sure Sherlock would speak to him again, let alone touch him. To expect Sherlock to include him in whatever he had planned--well, even their few days’ acquaintance had taught John better than that. All the more galling since the captain couldn’t be relied upon—Sherlock was, as far as John could discern, trying to do this entirely on his own. John didn’t doubt Sherlock’s capabilities, or the force of his determination, but he also understood all too well how easily and how quickly even the best-laid schemes could go awry. ( _An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, for promis’d joy!,_ his mind filled in automatically, in his mother’s light burr.) They lived on a knife’s edge, every day, and so very little stood between their living flesh and death. Two men together were not so much better than one, but John knew in that instant that he would offer Sherlock any shield he could, up to and including his own body.

No, he would not abandon Sherlock now, however strongly Sherlock felt. If he could not work beside him, he could still work near him, and toward the same ends. And truthfully, as a low-ranking member of the crew, Sherlock lacked influence. But perhaps John, as a passenger, a doctor, an officer and a gentleman, might have more luck.

“An’ forward tho’ I canna see,” he muttered to himself, and headed back to his cabin to prepare.

As he had before dinner a few nights ago, John dressed himself carefully, choosing his finest shirt and sharpest necktie and using the corner of his handkerchief to polish the buttons on his waistcoat to a shine. He dipped his comb into the basin and smoothed his hair carefully to the side, then checked his cheeks for any patches of stubble he’d missed that morning.

John was well aware that without physical evidence—which Sherlock still held, and was not likely to give up—his accusations could easily come across as the delusional ramblings of a paranoid lunatic, all the more so because this would be his first real interaction with the captain. Even more reason to look sharp, then. He might lack Magnussen’s wealth, but John had earned his position and his respectability through blood and honest toil, and he was determined to demonstrate it in every way he could.

He took one last look at himself in his shaving mirror and nodded. He’d prefer to do this with the physical evidence in hand, and with Sherlock at his side, but needs must.

John stopped just short of the captain’s door and took a moment to consciously prepare himself: posture upright, shoulders squared, and military authority pulled about him like a cloak. He knocked on the door, sharp and decisive, and allowed himself a self-assured smile as it opened.

Captain Malachi Stewart was not much taller than John himself, but like John, he knew how to carry himself with presence. He was more heavily-built, as well, with thick salt-and-pepper hair and a dense, neatly-tended beard. “Doctor Watson, I presume,” he said, nodding. “Do come in.”

John stepped into the anteroom of Stewart’s cabin, taking a quick look around. Comfortable enough, but spare, almost military in its neatness. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure, formally,” he said, offering Stewart his hand.

“Indeed not. But your reputation has preceded you, after the unfortunate events with Miss Forrester. I’m grateful we had you on board. Doctor Haye is… well, he isn’t typically called on to perform autopsies.”

“It was no trouble,” John said, grateful for the opening. He took the chair Stewart gestured to, and folded his hands in front of him on the table.

“So,” Stewart began, raising his eyebrows expectantly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m afraid this may be more business than pleasure,” John said. “I have a rather serious matter I’d like to address. Related to, as you put it, the unfortunate events with Miss Forrester.”

Something tensed in Stewart’s expression, but he made no other sign of alarm, just leaned forward in his chair and took another puff on his pipe. “Go on.”

Nothing to be gained from hesitation. “I have reason to believe that Miss Margaret Forrester’s death was not a suicide. Or at least, not entirely a suicide.”

Stewart frowned. “She took poison. She left a note. You yourself said there were no signs of a struggle.”

“That’s true,” John said. “But her companion insists that Miss Forrester had no history of melancholy; that she was, in fact, deeply happy about her return to England and her impending marriage. Further, and more damning, her note had been tampered with. Someone cut off the first half after her death, but before we found the body—and that half made it plain that she was driven to the act.”

Stewart sat back in his chair, considering. “That’s a serious accusation. Still, I do wonder—if the beginning of the note was missing, how do you know its contents?”

“I found it,” John said, wishing hard that he had it in hand. “In a fellow passenger’s cabin.”

Stewart removed his pipe from his mouth, and leveled John with an assessing stare. “And what, exactly, were you doing in a fellow passenger’s cabin? Without an invitation, I can only assume.”

John returned his stare without flinching. “I had suspicions. Well-founded ones, I believe, based on what I observed prior to Miss Forrester’s death. And the evidence I have found bears them out. She specifically names Charles Magnussen in her note. We found the note in his lock box, and torn-out pages of her diary in his fireplace grate. Furthermore, Magnussen has a history of—”

“We?” Stewart interrupted sharply. John winced. He had not meant to reveal Sherlock’s role if he could help it.

He raised his chin, refusing to appear caught out. “One of your sailors, a Mr. William Scott, was acquainted with Mr. Magnussen in Bombay, and has been—”

“Oh, yes, I’m familiar with Mr. Scott.” Stewart’s face twisted in anger. “Or should I say, Mr. Holmes. I’ve just been tipped off about him. He’s a stowaway and a fraud, as it happens, and he’s in the brig where he belongs.” John’s stomach dropped. How could—he had _just seen_ Sherlock. What on earth had happened in the past half-hour? “I have no idea how he talked himself onto my crew,” Stewart continued, scowl deepening. “But you may be sure I will be having words with Mr. Wilkins over the matter.” He replaced the pipe in his mouth and bit down hard.

A knock on the door cut through the tense silence, and Magnussen walked in. “Aha!” he said. “The very two men I had hoped to find.” He nodded at them both in turn, and helped himself to the decanter of brandy on the sideboard, smiling comfortably.

“I was just updating Doctor Watson on Mr. Holmes’s condition,” Stewart said, not seeming at all put out by Magnussen’s familiarity with his liquor cabinet and his room.

“Ah, of course,” Magnussen said, settling himself into a chair and leaning back expansively. “The captain was tempted to just shoot him, you know. It would be well within his rights. But I persuaded him to bring Holmes on to London. He has been dogging my footsteps with vicious rumors for years, and I think it’s time to finally bring him to trial for slander.”

“It isn’t slander if it’s true,” John said tightly.

“And it’s only true if you can prove it.”

“We have evidence,” John said, leaning forward, feeling his temper beginning to slip its bonds. “Solid evidence, and it’s damning indeed.”

Magnussen scoffed. “Easily forged. Or planted, come to that. I can’t imagine many juries would be impressed by the handling of those papers. And while we’re on the subject, I’m curious as to how you thought you could get away with creeping through my room, rifling through my private papers. I doubt you’d be so pleased if someone did that to you.” He smirked, ever-so-slightly, and God, John had never wanted so badly to punch anyone in the face.

“We had reason to suspect—” he began.

“You mean your friend had a vendetta.” He turned to Stewart, who had been silent throughout the exchange. “I assume Doctor Watson told you about his intrusion?”

“He did,” Stewart said, not looking at John at all. “I assure you, Mr. Magnussen, that I am taking it very seriously.”

Magnussen smiled. “I never doubted it.”

“Sherlock has powerful friends,” John said, desperate and searching for any bit of leverage he could use.

Magnussen smiled at that. “He does,” he agreed. “But they are very far away. And when it comes down to it, Doctor Watson, is anyone really going to miss the deviant, scandal-mongering younger son of a minor family? I rather doubt it, don’t you?” He sat back, and drained his tumbler of brandy. “I don’t think there’s much else to say here, Captain. Unless there’s something you’d like to add?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Stewart said, rising. “Doctor Watson, I’ll be confining you to quarters for the remainder of the voyage. I’d put you in the brig, but, well—it’s already occupied.”

“No,” John said, rising quickly and bracing himself for a fight. “No, you cannot.”

Stewart snorted. “You were in the military, Watson. I think you know very well that I can. Better to bow to the inevitable and come quietly. I’m sure it will go better that way, in the long run.”

“It doesn’t matter what he has on you,” John said. “Whether it’s the opium or—or anything else. We can find a way around it, he won’t—”

Stewart flinched, but Magnussen didn’t seem to notice. “You are chasing shadows. There is nothing for you to ‘find a way around’ except your own transgressions. I suggest you think on those instead.”

John clenched his fists at his sides, breathing hard. He rather fancied his chances in a fight, but he knew he had nowhere to run. This was Stewart’s ship, and Stewart’s crew, and they would know its passageways and hiding spots better than John ever could. John could not hope to hide, not all the way to Aden, and certainly not all the way to Port Said. “Fine,” he said and deliberately relaxed his hands. “Fine.”

Magnussen smiled, victorious. “Wisely done.”

He followed along as Stewart led John down the corridor toward the passenger cabins. John could feel his the weight of his stare on the back of his neck, and the air of smug satisfaction rolling off him in waves. They stopped abruptly in front of an unfamiliar door. It wasn’t John’s cabin, but Stewart unlocked it and gestured him inside anyway. “Your home till Port Said,” he said, with sarcastic hospitality.

“This isn’t my cabin,” John protested.

“It is not,” the captain agreed. “That seems awfully luxurious for a prisoner, and besides, there will be a crewman stationed outside your door, and I don’t want to upset the other passengers. You’ll be given your clothes, a Bible, and a lamp. There’s a chamber pot and linens on the bed. I don’t think you have much cause to complain.”

John didn’t bother to respond, refusing to acknowledge the thin pretense of courtesy. He looked around the small room without really seeing it. Stewart was already moving away, but Magnussen lingered. Once the two of them were alone, he moved closer, stepping into John’s space until their chests nearly touched. John couldn’t decide whether it would be worse to give ground by stepping back or by tilting his head up to meet Magnussen’s eye. In the end, he kept his feet firmly planted and stared fixedly at a point over Magnussen's shoulder.

“I did warn you,” Magnussen said quietly, almost conversationally. “Twice, in fact. You may consider this your third warning—more than sporting, I should say.” He paused, but didn’t seem to expect an answer. John waited. “I can ruin you,” Magnussen finally continued, in that same even, casual tone. “You have family? I can destroy them. Friends? I can drag them through the muck. I can make your name poison on everyone’s lips, should I wish it. Keep that in mind, if you are ever tempted to cross me again.” He smiled coldly. “You should have plenty of time to contemplate it in here.” John refused to say to a word, refused to so much as glance at Magnussen’s face.

Finally, Magnussen turned on his heel and left without another word, pulling the door shut behind him and throwing the room into darkness. John stood in the middle of the room for a few moments longer, then sighed, and moved over to stretch out on the bed. He would think of something—he was determined that he would—but he might as well get comfortable while he did.

Only the shifting light through the porthole kept John from losing track of time entirely. No one had yet brought his clothes, or a lamp, or food, or even water for the pitcher and basin. He simply lay on his back in the narrow bed and stared at the ceiling above him in the increasing gloom. Was Sherlock doing the same, he wondered, far below decks in the brig?

No, doubtless Sherlock was scheming and undeterred still, harassing the unlucky soul tasked with bringing him meals and plotting his escape in between rude deductions about passersby.

John smiled at the thought.

He heard the faint shuffle of feet outside his door again: the sailor assigned to guard him, no doubt. Not a cabin boy, of that John was sure. The footsteps sounded too heavy, and he suspected the cabin boys had already proved themselves too malleable where John and Sherlock were concerned. (Bless their eager hearts.) No, a seasoned sailor for certain, and likely a burly one, too, at least for now. They’d rotated with some frequency to prevent boredom, and therefore mistakes, and to reduce the chances of John sweet-talking his way out.

So: breaking out by force seemed unlikely, and talking his way out unlikelier still. Which left… what?

John couldn’t begin to guess, though he could not stop his mind racing from one mad idea to the next. He got back up, and paced the narrow room till he was dizzy.  Somehow he had to get a message out. To Sherlock, if he could, or to Billy in a pinch. He lay back down, weighing his odds of bribing the guard, or slipping a note out with his empty dishes...

Despite his tangled thoughts, John eventually fell into a light doze, lulled by the dim of the cabin and the rocking of the ship. When he woke it was fully dark, and someone was opening his door. He scrambled upright to his feet, but it was only an unfamiliar cabin boy (under his ersatz jailer’s watchful eye), delivering dinner, a lamp, his nightclothes, and a pitcher of water.

“Thank you,” he said, meaning it. His usual supper time had come and gone, and he had begun to despair of getting any of the few comforts that Stewart had promised him. The stew, in fact, seemed to have come from the sailors’ meal, and not the passengers’, but it was warm and filled his stomach and was still miles better than most what he’d eaten in the field.

The cabin boy hurried off before he finished  with the promise to fetch his empty bowl in the morning, and John was left alone again. He changed into his night shirt and turned the lamp back down—no sense in wasting the lamp oil.

He slept restlessly, waking often and plagued by strange dreams that slipped away from him the moment he awoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes: Both snippets of poetry that John quotes are from Robert Burns, ["To A Mouse,"](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173072/) 1785.
> 
> I am sorry I missed last week's update. Everything's been inexplicably tiring lately, and it turns out that not even having a chapter fully written can guarantee that I will get it to my beta in time.
> 
> SPEAKING OF BETAS, redscudery, PhD, went extra-thorough on me this week and consequently I am feeling even more warm and fuzzy toward her than usual. She is Tops, y'all. It's just a fact.
> 
> Not much to say, otherwise: just two more chapters and the sex 'n' banter epilogue. Get excited!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John sighed and leaned back against the bedstead, shaking the stiffness out of his hands. God, what was he doing? Did he really think he could break out of here, find Sherlock, and break _him_ out, armed with—what, the leg of a chair? If he was lucky?
> 
> _John and Sherlock find help from an ally they originally overlooked._

With no curtain to cover his west-facing porthole, John woke at dawn the next morning, bare hours after he’d finally fallen into a fitful sleep. His physical exhaustion, combined with the emotional toll of the past few days, left him feeling vaguely hungover and he blinked in owlish distress at the bright light that filled his cabin. He splashed his face and neck in the basin, hoping it would revive him, and dressed in the previous day’s clothes.

Then, of course, he had nothing to do but sit or pace. So pace he did, up and down the length of his cabin, four steps in one direction and four steps back, over and over until he thought he’d go mad from the sound of his own footsteps. He hoped the repetitive motion would shake free his thoughts, as it sometimes did, and help him find his way toward escape. Instead, it only increased his desperation, the near-unshakable feeling of being caged and helpless.

His leg twinged, and he grabbed the back of the chair to keep himself from driving his fist into his own thigh. He leaned on it heavily, and focused on regulating his breathing. A tentative knock on his door interrupted his thoughts, and he took one final calming breath before turning to face the cabin boy bearing his breakfast.

“I’ll come back at luncheon for the bowl,” the boy said.

“Before you go,” John began. “Could I beg a favor? I had a pen and paper in my previous cabin. Could you possibly—”

But the boy stepped back and shook his head rapidly before John could even get the question out. “No sir,” he said quickly. “I’m not to talk to you, nor anything else. Mr. Wilkins was very clear on that. I’m sorry, sir,” he added, and slipped out of the room before John could say another word.

John just barely stopped himself from flinging his bowl of porridge to the floor like a child in a tantrum. He clenched his hands into fists again, and resumed his pacing. He was a rational man and an intelligent one, no matter what Sherlock said. He could think through this. 

He couldn’t get a message out unless he got considerably more clever or persuasive: fine. Based on the footsteps and muffled conversation he heard at regular intervals in the corridor, the guards rotated out frequently. So—slim odds of catching one sleeping at his post. The more he thought about it, the more that fighting his way out seemed like his best option. It would be risky, and he really bore no ill will against his guards, but no matter. He would get out of this cabin today, whatever it took. He would dig through the door with his damned fingernails if he had to, fight his way past a dozen guards. But he could not,  _ could not,  _ stay here even a moment longer than necessary. And after that—well, one step at a time.

He scanned the room for anything he could use as a weapon. His pitcher was heavy crockery. Emptied of water and wielded properly, he was sure it would do some damage, though he doubted it would survive the blow. He hefted it, considering. The handle was small, and poorly placed for a well-balanced swing. Still, a possibility.

If he could dismantle his chair without attracting attention, that would be even better. It would be difficult to do quietly, but John was sure he could at least lever a leg free without too much ruckus. It would be hours yet before the cabin boy arrived with his lunch, and he certainly wasn’t expecting any other visitors.

He settled on the floor in front of the chair, turning it this way and that and testing every joint. Unfortunately, the chair was better-made than he’d expected, held together with screws instead of nails and glue. He cast about the room for anything he might be able to use as a makeshift screwdriver, but it was utterly bare. No wonder Stewart hadn’t wanted him in his own cabin. He could have had this chair apart in a trice with just his pocket knife. Of course, if he’d been in his own cabin, he wouldn’t have needed to take the chair apart to make a makeshift club: he’d have a gun.

He sighed and leaned back against the bedstead, shaking the stiffness out of his hands. God, what was he doing? Did he really think he could break out of here, find Sherlock, and break  _ him _ out, armed with—what, the leg of a chair? If he was lucky?

Well… yes. He laughed helplessly, letting his head drop forward to rest on his drawn-up knees. Yes, that was his best and only option, and so that’s what he’d do. The alternatives were not worth considering.

A loud thud from the corridor outside followed by a soft tapping on the door startled John out of his reverie. He scrambled to his feet and righted the chair, then opened the door cautiously. Miss Morstan stood on the other side, an unconscious sailor at her feet and an odd sort of smile on her lips. “I imagine you’re feeling rather cooped up in here,” she said.

John tried not to gape. “I—how did—”

“I had some help,” she said. “I noticed that you missed the last two meals, so I asked about. Young Billy Wiggins told me that the captain had confined you to an empty cabin, and that Mr. Holmes was in the brig. We thought you might be finding it a trifle inconvenient. So…” She shrugged, and gestured toward the empty hallway behind her.

“Right,” John said, still a trifle stunned. “Right. Well, let’s get this gentleman out of the corridor, shall we?” He opened the door all the way, and took hold of one of the sailor’s lolling arms. “Can you…?”

Miss Morstan rolled her eyes, and took the other arm. “I can.”

Together, they managed to drag the man into the room and arrange him on his side as gently as they could on the floor. Getting him onto the bed was out of the question, but John grabbed the pillow to slip under his head. He bore the man no real grudge; the least he could do was try to minimize the headache he’d have upon awakening.

“How did you knock him out?” John asked, as they slipped out into the hall.

Miss Morstan raised one eyebrow and reached for the cane she’d propped against the wall—John’s cane, in fact. Then she reached into her reticule and pulled out John’s revolver.

John laughed out loud in relief and surprise. “You’re bloody terrifying,” he said, and for a moment she looked happier than John had seen in her days.

“I apologize for going through your things,” she said. “Billy helped me get into your room, and I did think you would want your gun.”

“You’re hardly the first person to look through my room this voyage,” John said, tucking the gun into his waistband. “But you’re certainly the best-intentioned. Thank you.”

“Billy is sneaking a lockpick set to the brig,” Miss Morstan added, leading the way back down the hall. “He seemed confident that Mr. Holmes could join us within the half-hour. I offered my cabin as a rendezvous point.”

Indeed, Sherlock and Wiggins were already waiting in Miss Morstan’s cabin. Wiggins stood stiffly by the door, looking deeply uncomfortable at being found in a lady’s cabin, even at the lady’s invitation. Sherlock, by contrast, had made himself just as comfortable in one of Miss Morstan’s chairs as he had in John’s. He’d pulled a knit cap over his head to hide his distinctive curls, and several days’ stubble darkened his cheeks, but otherwise he looked much as John had seen him last.

A tension John had not realized he’d been holding escaped him at the sight of Sherlock safe and whole. He reached out to clasp Sherlock’s arm, utterly unable to help himself. “Thank God you’re all right,” he said, unable to stop some of his relief from bleeding into his voice.

“Of course I am,” Sherlock said, but his voice lacked the expected bite. “Stewart wouldn’t really kill me; he hasn’t the nerve. As for you—whatever did you think you would achieve?”

John bristled; even his relief at seeing Sherlock unharmed couldn’t quite erase his anger. “I certainly had to try something after you shut me out.”

“As I told you—” Sherlock began.

“Gentlemen!” Miss Morstan cut in. “Is this really the time?”

John flushed. “No, of course not. I apologize.”

Sherlock looked mutinous, but he changed the subject anyway. “It won’t be long before someone realizes we’ve broken out. We need to find Magnussen soon,” he said. “I just can’t decide if there should be witnesses or not.”

“Well,” Miss Morstan said, looking at John. “You’ll have at least two of us.”

“Oh, no,” John said. “No, you cannot be involved in this.”

Miss Morstan fixed him with a hard stare. “I am  _ already _ involved in this.”

“Yes, but—”

“You heard the lady,” Sherlock said, smirking. “She’s already involved.”

John shot him a look of pure venom. “It’s not safe.”

“I believe I’ve proven myself already,” Miss Morstan said, a little stiffly. “Shall I remind you how you got here?” John drew in a breath to protest further, but Miss Morstan held up a hand to stop him. “Let me see this through,” she said, more quietly. “I think I deserve it.”

John felt himself deflate. He thought of Miss Forrester’s cold limp body, and Miss Morstan’s tightly-held grief, almost against his will. “Yes,” he said. “You do. Very well.”

By the door, Billy Wiggins shifted anxiously. “Mr. Holmes, sir,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt, it’s only—I know Captain Stewart and Mr. Magnussen were out on the promenade ‘alf an hour ago, but I don’t know—”

“Right,” Sherlock said, springing up from the chair, languid to business-like in the blink of an eye. “I have the documentation—well done, Billy—and John has his gun—well done, Miss Morstan. Shall we?”

“Wait,” John said. “Just like that? What’s—are you going to fill us in on your plan, or will you just hope we can catch up in time?”

Sherlock cast his eyes heavenward, with an expression that clearly said no one in history had suffered as he did. “We will find Magnussen. And the captain, who is apparently with him. That will be convenient, I suppose, as this is his ship and we may have to shoot one of his passengers. And then…” he shrugged carelessly. “We’ll convince him to take my place in the brig. Or we’ll shoot him.”

A small smile tugged at Miss Morstan’s lips. “Elegant in its simplicity,” she said, and stepped into the corridor with Billy behind her.

John turned to Sherlock, now that they were momentarily alone. “In case you’re wondering,” he said. “I still can’t decide if I want to kiss you or punch you right now.”

Sherlock blinked. “Oh,” he said.

“I won’t do either,” John continued. “Because we have work to do, and I’d rather not scandalize young Wiggins.”

“But you don’t mind scandalizing Miss Morstan.”

John chuckled. “She knocked a sailor over the head with my cane and snuck me my gun in her reticule. I doubt she’s so easy to scandalize.”

Sherlock hummed in amused acknowledgement. “Well, I imagine we’re about to test that hypothesis quite thoroughly.”

John drew a deep breath and tried to suppress the smile that threatened to creep across his face. “So we are,” he said. “Lead on.” He started out the door, expecting Sherlock to follow, but instead Sherlock caught his arm.

“Wait,” he said, an unfamiliar expression on his face. “John, I—” He sucked in his breath as though preparing for a dive. “I am sorry. For what I said, before. I’ve had some time to think, and—”

John shook his head. “I know. I have, too. And we’ll talk, but—for now we have a blackmailer to corner, don’t we?”  _ The Work comes first. _

A hopeful light flickered in Sherlock’s eyes. “We certainly do,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the home stretch now, folks! One more chapter of plot and then what I've been affectionately referring to as the "sex 'n' banter epilogue." It'll be a grand time.
> 
> My eternal thanks, as usual, to redscudery for the beta and for everyone following along at home.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John nodded in approval and turned back to Magnussen. “You can come quietly,” he said. “You will get a trial; we’ve no desire to settle this ourselves.”
> 
> “Oh, spare me,” Magnussen said. “You’re thrilled to be playing the hero again, Doctor Watson; I can see how good that gun feels in your hand. You’d like nothing better than to shoot me right now.”
> 
> _A crisis and a resolution._

They made an odd parade on their way to the promenade deck: one well-dressed lady in mourning, one gentleman, a sailor in a knit cap entirely unsuited to the weather, and a cabin boy trailing uncertainly behind. As they got closer, Wiggins darted ahead to scout the scene. Magnussen and Stewart were where he had seen them last, leaning against the railing at the stern in serious conversation.

John looped his arm through Miss Morstan’s and tried to look as though he were merely out for a stroll. Beside him, Miss Morstan grew increasingly tense, her shoulders tightening with every step they took, but her pace did not slow and her hand on his elbow did not shake. They rounded the corner to where Stewart and Magnussen were standing just in time to see Sherlock saunter up, relaxed as could be, and lean against the rail next to them.

Magnussen and Stewart managed to concealed their surprise admirably, but John didn’t miss the flash of surprise that flickered across Magnussen’s face. “Billy Wiggins is never going to work on a ship again,” Stewart said tightly.

Sherlock smiled, all teeth. “He is an astonishingly resourceful lad,” he said. “I think he’ll do quite well outside of your dubious employ.”

“And _you_ —” Stewart began, turning toward John and advancing forward angrily.

John widened his stance, moving to stand in front of Miss Morstan. “Don’t,” he said. “This really doesn’t concern you.”

“This is my ship,” Stewart countered. “Everything concerns me.”

Sherlock cocked his head. “But is it really your ship if you’re under someone else’s thumb? It’s in your best interest to step aside here, Stewart.”

He thrust out his chin. “I won’t be bullied.”

John snorted. “Clearly you will. Look, we have no interest in your opium dens, or whatever it is Magnussen has on you. Step aside, let us deal with him, and you’ll be free of everything.”

“Oh, it won’t be as easy as all that, Doctor Watson,” Magnussen said, speaking for the first time. He sounded utterly unruffled. “You have a terribly exaggerated view of your own powers.”

“I have the evidence, Magnussen,” Sherlock said, pulling the folded sheaf of papers from his wallet. “Nigel Whitmore and Margaret Forrester died at your hands, however they drew their final breaths, and I can prove it.”

“You’re willing to drag their memories through the muck for this?” Magnussen asked. “You might have a case, if you play your cards very, very well, but oh, the corpses that will be unearthed. They won’t recover from that.”

“They’re dead,” Sherlock said bluntly. “The real harm is already done, I’d say.”

“And _you_ ,” Magnussen said, moving close into Sherlock’s space. “’He that is without sin, let him first cast a stone’—that is what they say, is it not? Are you—are _either_ of you—really in a position to cast the first stone?”

“I’m willing to take the risk,” Sherlock said evenly. “As you’ve pointed out before, I don’t have much of a reputation to sacrifice.”

“Ah, but he does,” Magnussen said, nodding towards John. “Will you drag him down with you?”

“I'll decide that for myself, thank you,” John said. “I’ve risked worse than whatever you have in mind, I promise.”

“This is ridiculous,” Stewart burst out, finally breaking his silence. “I’m taking you both back into custody and putting an end to this farce.” He reached for his whistle.

John pulled his revolver from his waistband, not aiming it yet, but letting Stewart see it. “No,” he said. “You’re not. You’ll stay right there, and you’ll not make a sound.”

Stewart paled and took half a step back. John nodded in approval and turned back to Magnussen. “You can come quietly,” he said. “You will get a trial; we’ve no desire to settle this ourselves.”

“Oh, spare me,” Magnussen said. “You’re thrilled to be playing the hero again, Doctor Watson; I can see how good that gun feels in your hand. You’d like nothing better than to shoot me right now.”

“True enough,” John said. “It certainly wouldn’t keep me awake tonight. Still, I’d rather not waste the bullet.”

Magnussen threw back his head and laughed out loud. “Luckily I have no such qualms,” he said, and in one quick blur of motion, he pulled out a gun of his own, grabbed a startled Wiggins, and leveled the barrel at Wiggins’s head. Wiggins squirmed in panic for a moment and then went limp as Magnussen pressed the pistol to his temple, face parchment-pale beneath his freckles. “Not so easy to be heroic now, is it?” he said, a cold wide smile on his face.

John tensed but did not lower his gun. “You can leave him out of this,” he said, voice steady. “Let him go, and I’ll put my gun down.” He dared a quick sideways glance at Sherlock, who stood frozen except for his eyes, which darted rapidly between Magnussen, John, and Miss Morstan.

“The reverse, I think,” Magnussen said. “You can toss your gun over the rail, and I’ll let this little brat go when I hear the splash.”

John stole another glance at Sherlock, who shook his head minutely. John swallowed hard. Wiggins’s eyes were wide with fear, but he bore up bravely, and John felt a swell of pride.

“You are too evenly matched for that,” Sherlock said in a careful, level tone. “Look, each of you is armed, and while your conscience might not prick you over the cold-blooded murder of a cabin boy, I daresay the law will. You’ll have a much harder time slithering your way free of that, I promise you. You’d do better to let him go and deal with us.”

“How sure of that are you?” Magnussen asked. “I know you’re fond of the boy. Doctor Watson, you’re a betting man, if I’m not mistaken. What would you say his odds are, and mine?” He chuckled, and pressed the gun more firmly against Wiggins’s coppery hair. Tears glinted at the corners of Wiggins’s squeezed-shut eyes, and a soft whimper escaped his lips. John ground his teeth together and his grip on the pistol tightened to the point of pain.

“Here, now, Magnussen,” Stewart began, stepping forward hesitantly. He had begun to look ill the moment Magnussen clamped his arm around Wiggins’s chest, and now Magnussen’s callous disregard of the boy’s palpable terror had finally prodded him into motion. “I’m sure we don’t need to bring the boy into this. Let’s… let’s set the guns down, and let him go, eh? And then we can…” His voice drifted off as he realized that Magnussen was ignoring him utterly, his gaze still fixed on John and Sherlock.

Suddenly a new voice broke in. “ _Enough_ ,” Miss Morstan said, louder and more confident than John had ever heard her. “You will ruin no more lives as you have ruined mine.”

As she spoke, she rushed forward, just three quick steps and a rustle of skirts. She raised a little gleaming revolver with unwavering hands. A deadly and determined smile played over her lips as she leveled the weapon at Magnussen. With strength borne of pure fear, Billy wrenched himself from Magnussen’s distracted grip and dove to the deck as Miss Morstan pulled the trigger again and again.

Her bullets, fired at so close a range, struck Magnussen square in the chest. He arched backwards, a look of surprise on his face, and tumbled backwards over the railing as red bloomed across his shirtfront. Sherlock darted forward to lean over the rail, watching him fall, but John stood rooted to the spot in shock. The splash of Magnussen’s body hitting the water jarred him out of his spell, and he spun to face Miss Morstan.

She was tucking the small pistol back into her reticule, her face serene, her posture relaxed.

“Are you all right?” he asked her as though that weren’t the most absurd thing he could possibly say, given the circumstances.

She looked mildly confused. “Yes, of course I’m all right,” she said.

John cleared his throat and looked around, at Stewart standing dumbstruck at the rail, at Billy crouched shaking at Sherlock’s feet, at the first few nervous passengers peering around the corner. “Well, you have—you did just kill a man.”

“Yes,” she said. “That’s true.” Her expression didn’t waver. “You were prepared to do the same, were you not?” she said.

John blinked. “Well. Yes. I was.”

She nodded. “All right, then.” She fastened the clasp of her reticule and brushed off her skirts. “Someone should see to Billy,” she said. “The poor boy’s had quite a shock.” And without another glance at John, she moved to lay a gentle hand on his quaking shoulders.

John moved over beside Sherlock, who was still, watching the water where Magnussen had fallen. “Did you know she had a gun?” he asked in an undertone.

“I did,” Sherlock said. “But I—well, I underestimated her, frankly.”

“It seems we all did,” John said.

Sherlock nodded slowly, still staring at the water. Not a single ripple marked where Magnussen had entered; the ship’s massive wake swept every wave and swell into its churn.

“We had better deal with Stewart,” John said eventually.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Sherlock said. He looked almost shell-shocked, and it occurred to John, somewhat belatedly, that this might be the first violent death Sherlock had ever witnessed. He had seen bodies before, certainly, but—watching it happen was different. John lay a hand on Sherlock’s back without thinking about it, then snatched it away before anyone noticed the intimacy of the gesture.

Captain Stewart, by the time they turned to him, had recovered somewhat from his shock, and was placating anxious passengers startled by the sound of gunshots.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” he was saying. “Not at gunshot at all, no. Simply an engine noise, and not an alarming one at that. Everything is in order, I assure you.” When he had finally cleared the deck again, he turned back to them. “Well,” he began. “I’m sure you’re very pleased with yourselves.”

Sherlock shrugged, having seemingly recovered some of his usual self-possession. “Moderately,” he said. “I had anticipated a different outcome, but… I cannot help but feel justice was served.”

The captain raised his eyebrows. “Justice?”

“As much as he deserved. I would have seen him to trial if I could have, but you’re no fool, Stewart. You know how difficult he would be to prosecute. There are, after all, certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and I have some sympathy for private revenge in such cases.”

Stewart made a sour face. “I don’t like it,” he said. “Make no mistake. You’ve abused my ship and your employment. You’ve caused all manner of ruckus above and below decks. I do not think the crew will settle till we reach port. You have even, from what I can see, led a respectable woman into violence and murder, and I hope that will sit heavily on your conscience, if nothing else does.”

“Mm,” Sherlock said, glancing over at Miss Morstan, who was still talking quietly with Billy. “Perhaps. But I daresay the lady will see things differently.”

Miss Morstan did, in fact, see things differently, and remained adamant in her insistence that neither John nor Sherlock had “led her astray,” nor influenced her decisions.

“I did what needed to be done,” she repeated. “Poor Billy’s life was in danger, and I could see no other way to save him and break the stalemate. Besides which,” she added, drawing herself up to her full height. “I meant what I said. That man ruined innumerable lives. You may think my actions rash, but you cannot deny that plain fact.”

In the end, Stewart’s own relief at being solidly free from Magnussen’s reach would finally win out. He summarily banished Sherlock from the crew, to Sherlock’s poorly-disguised relief, and set him him up in an empty cabin with the promise to take it out of his wages. “Not,” the captain grumbled, “that I’m convinced you’ve earned them.”

“You needn’t pay me at all if it galls you so,” Sherlock said, with less good grace than he was probably trying for. “I wasn’t here for the _money_.” He paused, and John knew the moment he opened his mouth again that something awful was about to come out. “Save them to bribe the customs officials; it’ll be cheaper than giving them a cut of your opium.”

The captain’s face went red. “I don’t—”

Sherlock held up his hand. “I don’t care about your filthy little opium deals. Trust me, I wish myself in ignorance of the hold’s contents every bit as much as you do. You’ve nothing to fear from either of us on that account.”

Stewart subsided, still blustery, and dismissed them entirely a few minutes later, to John’s profound relief.

 

* * *

 

“If more women were like Miss Morstan,” Sherlock mused, once they were back in John’s cabin, “the world would be a far more interesting place.” He had made himself quite comfortable sprawled out on John’s bed, leaving the chair for John as usual.

“I like her,” John said. “She rather terrifies me, but I like her.”

Sherlock glanced at him sidelong, expression opaque. “A marriage in which both parties sleep with a gun under their pillow? It would be unconventional, but I cannot blame you for considering it.”

“What?” John said, surprised. “No, I—no. I am not looking for another marriage, even if Miss Morstan would have me. I’ve had a wife,” he added, more quietly. “And she was lovely, entirely. But I’m not looking for that again.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, suddenly intent on looking anywhere but at John. More than anything else, that gave John the courage he needed to continue.

“I wasn’t looking for anything,” he said. “It seemed I’d already had my lifetime’s share of luck—but I was wrong.” Sherlock chanced a quick look at John from under his lashes, but John caught his gaze and held it. “Sherlock—” he began, and let every desperate emotion he could not name bleed into the word.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered. “John, I—I was wrong before, when I tried to send you away. It wasn’t—you have never been a distraction. Quite the opposite, in fact. As a conductor of light, of genius, you are remarkable. Indispensable, in fact. I am only sorry I did not realize it sooner.”

Sherlock’s face, his tone—all spoke to the earnestness of his apology, and John wanted nothing more than to close the distance between them and kiss him senseless. But he held back long enough to ask one final question. He had to know. “Is that all I am? A remarkable conductor of light, indispensable for your work?”

“Remarkable in your own right,” Sherlock said. “And indispensable to—to me. John,” he said, his carefully-measured words giving way to something far more urgent. “John, you are essential.”

John was out of his chair and into Sherlock’s arms almost as soon as the words left his lips, letting his kisses say what his words couldn’t. He scrambled closer, clumsy, inelegant, and eager, to straddle Sherlock’s lap. He wanted to put his hands everywhere at once: Sherlock’s face, his hair, his back, his hips. If the graceless fumbling of Sherlock’s hands across his own body was any indication, Sherlock felt equally at sea. He tugged John’s shirttails free and slid his hands over the skin beneath, pulling John closer. Their fingers tripped over buttons and flies, scrambling for bare skin. Not worth the time, John decided, to get them entirely naked. He pushed their remaining clothes aside instead, freeing their cocks to the humid air. Sherlock gasped aloud in relief as John took him in hand, tilted his head back in a wordless plea for more.

“Anything,” John whispered. “Anything you want, always, I—” He broke off abruptly and brought his mouth to Sherlock’s again, stealing a quick, rough kiss before he pulled back to slide down Sherlock’s body. Sherlock’s eyes widened comically, then fluttered shut when he realized John’s intentions. John chuckled in spite of himself, dropping an affectionate kiss on Sherlock’s stomach. “I’ll warn you,” he said, looking up. “I’ve not done this in quite awhile. I don’t know if—”

Sherlock laughed breathlessly. “John, I can’t say I’m worried about finesse right now.”

It _had_ been a long time since John had performed that particular act, but the muscle memory had never really faded. He quickly remembered how much he enjoyed it, how intimately he could feel and react to his partner’s every gasp and shudder. And Sherlock’s reactions did not disappoint: he shook and begged and whispered John’s name over and over in a litany of pleasure before spending in a hot bitter rush against John’s tongue. John swallowed it down and licked his lips, relishing the way Sherlock’s eyes widened at the sight.

“That was gorgeous,” John said afterward, so aroused by Sherlock’s display that he could barely see straight. He sat back on his heels and gave his own erection a slow, loose stroke, just to relieve the pressure while he took in the sight before him: Sherlock sprawled back against his pillow, flushed and panting, watching John with avid, hungry eyes. John was so enchanted, in fact, by the decadent scene that he missed the warning glint in Sherlock’s eyes. He was entirely surprised, bare seconds later, to find himself flat on his back with Sherlock looming over him. “Have mercy,” John whispered, just before Sherlock dove in to capture his mouth.

Sherlock had no mercy at all, but John let himself exalt in it, let it take him over entirely in a way he hadn’t allowed in so long. Surrender felt easy with Sherlock, and safe, for all that Sherlock seemed to be a creature composed entirely of sharp edges and loaded weapons. Sherlock’s hands seemed to be everywhere at once, but he kept his mouth to John’s ear, his whispers filthy and sweet by turns. Time seemed to stretch and compress in strange ways, but Sherlock’s voice anchored him. “Let me see you now,” he murmured, breath hot against John’s skin. “Let me, please.” John couldn’t refuse him. He arched up against Sherlock as he came, cries muffled in the crook of his elbow and his other hand fisted in the back of Sherlock’s shirt.

Sherlock dropped down to the bed beside John, breathing heavily and looking smug, and flung a careless, possessive arm over his stomach. John floated in a pleasant haze for a while, drowsy and sated. The past few days still seemed distant and unreal when he was stretched out beside Sherlock with the bright afternoon sun shining through the porthole.

“What will you do in London?” John asked eventually, half expecting Sherlock to roll his eyes at such a pedestrian question.

Instead, Sherlock hummed contentedly and stretched, resettling himself with his chin tucked against John’s shoulder. “I’ll find rooms, I suppose, and hang out my shingle as a consulting detective. I may still have a few connections left in London from my university days.” He shifted again, just the slightest unsettled tenseness against John’s side. “A medical consultant would be terribly useful, I imagine.”

“Oh yes?” John asked, and tried not to let his hopes soar just yet.

“Mmm, certainly. He’ll need a gun, of course, and a good deal of nerve—I couldn’t abide one of those soft-skinned, officious London types. I don’t imagine the city’s criminal element would have much truck with him, either. A military background, now—that would get their attention.” He slid his hand up John’s chest to prod gently at his scar, as though John wouldn’t take his hint otherwise. “Any idea where I might find such a man?”

John tried to bite back his smile, but the tidal wave of joy threatening to overtake him made that difficult. “Why, now that you mention it,” he said, with feigned surprise. “I happen to have a revolver in my trunk there. A service revolver, if you’ll believe it, from my time in the Army. As for the softness of my skin, well—I couldn’t say, myself. But you’re welcome to investigate at your leisure.”

Sherlock smiled against John’s bare skin and settled himself more comfortably. “Consider yourself recruited, then,” he said, and yawned. John’s jaw ached for smiling, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from beaming up at the ceiling as Sherlock’s breathing slowed and lengthened, then gave way to soft snores.

John himself could not quite drift off, but for once he didn’t mind lying awake. Happiness filled his chest, pushing the air from his lungs till he thought he might burst with it. Far beneath them, the engines rumbled, carrying them towards the sunset, toward London and home and a future rolling out before them like the open sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, you guys, we're almost there. This is the final chapter of plot: all that remains is the epilogue, which is really just bonus smut.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to redscudery for the fabulous beta and to the Antidiogenes Club for listening to me complain, procrastinate, and occasionally write sentences. You are all astonishingly talented, kind, and inspirational.


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mm, but you have left out the most interesting part,” Sherlock said, beginning to crowd him up against the wall.
> 
> John raised an eyebrow, and tried to affect nonchalance, though he had a suspicion where this was going. “And which part would that be?”
> 
> Sherlock smiled, dark and promising, and advanced until John’s back hit the wall. “The part where Sherlock Holmes takes John Watson back to Baker Street and has his mad, brilliant way with him.”
> 
>  
> 
> _London, 1890: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, ten years on._

“I still can’t—a _red-headed_ league,” John said, so tired and so awash with laughter that he nearly swayed into Sherlock as he unlocked the front door of their building. “Just—just bobbing ginger heads, as far as the eye can see, it’s—” He ducked his head in another fit of giggles. “What a ridiculous scheme.”

“And sure to become even more so once you’ve immortalized it in prose,” Sherlock grumbled, but the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement.

“No one will believe it,” John said. “They’ll accuse me of writing pure fiction now.”

Sherlock sniffed. “The way you embellish, you very nearly do.” He herded John inside, pulling the door shut behind them.

“What shall I write, then?” John asked, turning to face him. “‘Our client was the right fool in the wrong place, we sat in a dark cellar for two hours, and Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant madman. The end.’ I don’t think Doyle will pay me for that.”

“Mm, but you have left out the most interesting part,” Sherlock said, beginning to crowd him up against the wall.

John raised an eyebrow, and tried to affect nonchalance, though he had a suspicion where this was going. “And which part would that be?”

Sherlock smiled, dark and promising, and advanced until John’s back hit the wall. “The part where Sherlock Holmes takes John Watson back to Baker Street and has his mad, brilliant way with him.”

“I imagine I would have to publish _that_ story under a nom de— _ahh_.” He broke off with a breathy gasp as Sherlock slipped a hand beneath his waistcoat and bent his head to nibble at John’s ear, and along his jawline. He let himself be caught up in it for a moment—Sherlock’s mouth was so warm, and the air outside so cold, and _oh,_ how that man could kiss.

Still, while the timing could not be better—a successful case always called for celebration—their location was less than ideal.

“We can’t—not here,” John managed, between kisses. “Mrs. Hudson—”

“Hang Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, and reapplied his mouth to the sliver of exposed skin on John’s neck.

John braced both hands on Sherlock’s chest and pushed him half a step back. “I rather think Mrs. Hudson will hang _us_ , if she catches us.” Their landlady was a patient and long-suffering woman, with a significant blind (and deaf) spot concerning the two of them, but even she could not be expected to endure the sort of display Sherlock seemed determined to put on in her front hallway. “Come on, upstairs.” John smiled as he tugged at Sherlock’s hand. “I can think of a hundred wicked things I’d like to do with you, and all of them will be more pleasurable in our bed.”

Sherlock tried to maintain his impassive expression, but he could not quell the rising flush on his cheekbones. “Only a hundred?” he murmured. “Good God, how slow your mind is.” But he let himself be led upstairs willingly enough, and did not try to hide his hurry as he shucked his overcoat and peeled off his gloves.

“This was all I could think about in that cellar,” John confessed when they reached their bedroom.

“And with Jones and Merryweather right there, too,” Sherlock said, faux-reproving. “Heavens.”

John chuckled as he slipped off his tie and waistcoat. “I was sure he’d be able to read my mind if I looked him full in the face. Or if I looked at you, for that matter.” He hung up the waistcoat neatly, and tried not to shake his head when Sherlock let his simply fall to the floor. “I tried to keep my mind elsewhere, but…”

“But you knew what would happen when we returned home,” Sherlock finished, as his fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt. “So tell me, Doctor Watson, since you’ve had so much time to plot—what is the first on your list of wicked things?”

“First,” John said, moving close into Sherlock’s space. “I would like to kiss you properly.”

“You are a traditionalist,” Sherlock agreed, with a regretful air that vanished the moment their lips met. This time it was John’s turn to press forward until he had Sherlock backed up against the door, one hand slipping over John’s short hair and the other sliding down to cup his arse. John kissed him hard, tugging him down and nudging his thighs apart until their faces were nearly on the same level. “And what,” Sherlock asked, after a few breathless moments, “is the next item on your list?”

John couldn’t help but laugh, face dropping to Sherlock’s shoulder. “I didn’t really make a list, Sherlock.”

Sherlock _tsk_ ed even as he smoothed his hands over John’s hips and arse. “Your shoddy methodology is a continuous trial to me, I hope you realize.”

“Doubtless.” John dropped a quick kiss on the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, then pulled back enough to get his hands between them. “Perhaps I could make it up to you? By, say, removing our trousers?”

“Acceptable.”

“You’re a saint, truly, to tolerate me so.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched, in a way that never failed to stir John’s heart. “I’ve always thought so.” He tossed his trousers and undergarments to the side, standing before John in naught but his socks and a half-unbuttoned shirt. His prick stood proud between his legs, tenting his shirttails, while a rosy flush spread across his cheeks and chest.

The twist of affection John felt at the sight was so sharp and sudden it nearly hurt. “You are so lovely,” he said, softly. “Do you know that?”

Sherlock bit his lip and closed the widened gap between them in an instant, pulling John to him hard and crushing their mouths together. They stumbled backwards to the bed, neither willing to let go for even a moment, and tumbled together to the mattress, an awkward tangle of arms and legs. “I want you,” John whispered against the now-bared skin of Sherlock’s sternum. “That really was all I could think about in that cellar, Jones and Merryweather be damned. I just—your hands on my hips and your teeth against my nape, I—”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock said, arching up against him for a moment before he flipped them both over with a grunt. John grinned up at him, pulling his knees up and letting them fall open, while Sherlock fumbled for the petroleum jelly they kept by the bed. John shivered in anticipation at the sound of Sherlock slicking up his fingers.

Sherlock chuckled in response, dark and low against John’s skin. “Eager?”

John grabbed Sherlock’s arse with both hands, grinding up hard against him. “I told you I’ve been waiting all night for this,” he said, not bothering to hide the desperate note in his voice.

“Then I shan’t try your patience further,” Sherlock said, and slid his hand between John’s legs, pausing briefly over his aching prick before circling a teasing finger around his hole.

John groaned in relief at the first nudge of those clever fingers into his body and spread his legs wider still, utterly shameless and eager for more. Sherlock let out his own sigh of pleasure, breathing out John’s name on a long exhale. All the curious details of the case, the chill in John’s bones and the stiffness in his shoulder from the long cold hours of motionless waiting in the cellar, fell away at the twist of Sherlock’s fingers within him. John moaned as those fingers withdrew and nudged at his hip till he turned over, and moaned again at the first press of Sherlock’s prick against his entrance.

Sherlock slid in with agonizing slowness, hands firm on John’s hips to hold him still. John dropped his forehead to rest on his folded arms as Sherlock draped himself over John’s back and pressed kisses to each vertebrae. Sparks raced across his skin at every scrape of Sherlock’s stubble. “Is this what you wanted?” Sherlock whispered, lips brushing John’s ear. He punctuated each word with a shallow rock of his hips.

“You know it is,” John said, pushing back against each thrust.

Sherlock mouthed down John’s neck and along the curve of his shoulder, letting his lips linger over John’s scar. “I do,” he said so softly he was nearly inaudible above the creaking bed frame and John’s panting breath. “But I like to hear you say it.” He slipped one hand from John’s waist to his cock and gave it a loose, slow stroke.

John smiled even as his nerves sang at Sherlock’s touch. “You’re brilliant,” he said. “Brilliant and— _oh god_ —and beautiful.” Sherlock’s hand tightened, even as he kept pace with the torturously slow movement of his hips.

“So are you,” Sherlock said, growing breathless himself. “You’re—John, you’re—” His hips stuttered and John felt his entire body tense as he tried to pull himself back from the brink. “I want you all the time. I want—” His hips jerked and he moaned, open mouth pressed to John’s back. John shifted and reached one hand back to grip Sherlock’s arse and pull him closer as his crisis took him.

Sherlock allowed himself only a moment to slump bonelessly over John before he straightened up and withdrew, manhandling John onto his back. “ _All the time_ ,” he said fiercely before diving down to take John in his mouth. John arched up helplessly as Sherlock slid two fingers inside him, crooking them just so.

Sherlock didn’t tease, as he sometimes liked to do, didn’t draw things out till John was sweaty and begging. Instead he held John’s gaze, and for all Sherlock’s considerable talents, it was the unconcealed desire in his eyes that finally tipped John over the edge. He came with a ragged moan, one hand over his mouth and the other tangled in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock sucked him through the last of his convulsions before pulling off to lay his cheek on John’s thigh. A lazy smile played about his reddened lips, and he rubbed his head against John’s palm like an affectionate cat. John obliged him, combing his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and scratching his nails lightly across his scalp. A soft sigh of pleasure escaped Sherlock’s lips, and he seemed on the verge of falling asleep right there between John’s legs.

“We really ought to go to bed properly,” John said after a moment.

“Mmm. Tiresome,” Sherlock said, even as his eyelids drifted lower.

John shifted, unwilling to displace Sherlock, but growing increasingly uncomfortable. “At least let me clean up a bit.”

“Also tiresome.”

“Yes, well, you’re not the one whose buttocks are being glued together by—”

“Fine,” Sherlock said, making a face and letting John up. He crawled up to the head of the bed before flopping down dramatically. “But hurry. It’s cold.”

John rolled his eyes as he tossed the flannel back in the basin and reached for his nightshirt. “I’d suggest a nightshirt, but let me guess: they’re tiresome?”

“Unutterably,” Sherlock agreed. “You’re much warmer.”

“Such flattery,” John said, climbing into bed and pulling the covers over them both. “Luckily I’m rather susceptible to it.”

Sherlock rolled over to plaster himself to John’s side. “Very lucky,” he said, soft and drowsy. Within seconds, his breathing grew deep and even, and John felt him relax into sleep.

“We are, aren’t we?” he whispered, and turned his head just enough to press a kiss to Sherlock’s temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are. The boys made it through and so did we.
> 
> Now that everything is properly wrapped up, there are a few people I'd like to thank in greater detail:
> 
> -[redscudery](http://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery), of course, for her excellent beta work. It's been a privilege to work with her, and the story, my skills,and my confidence are all better for her influence. My gratitude is no less sincere for being unitalicized. :)
> 
> -[jinglebell](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jinglebell/pseuds/jinglebell), whose enthusiasm and encouragement for this idea began with the first scribbled notebook page at Gridlock last year and hasn't dimmed since. She is a magnificent and glittering creature of the deep, and I am so happy she's in the fandom.
> 
> -everyone in the Antidiogenes club, who have been listening to me talk/whine/sigh/crow about this story since August, and have cheered me on even when I'm pretty sure I was just posting the same five sentences over and over in chat because I didn't like any of the others.
> 
> -you, the reader, for doing what you do. Whether it's commenting, leaving kudos, subscribing, or just quietly helping that hit counter creep up, you're the reason I'm not just shouting wildly into the void. I appreciate it.


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